


do you care if i stay?

by justaboat



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaboat/pseuds/justaboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn and niall go on a road trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do you care if i stay?

**Author's Note:**

> literally i write all my fics for [dom](http://starseas.tumblr.com/), but this is for dom, the love of my life. enjoy darling.
> 
> big huge massive thanks to leighanne, as always, the love of my whole damn life for reading, planning, beta-ing (which means spending a large amount of time removing all my unnecessary comma's), and being the best always to me. i love you the most. also kiwi, amber, and ju for encouraging and being lovely and putting up with me constantly.
> 
> i used google maps for most of the planning of the road trip so any and all mistakes are mine! i'm not a huge travelling expert, so. just a heads up.
> 
> if you read this, thank you, you're wonderful.

The house is quiet. 

It's always quiet; settled into the stillness he's grown so accustomed to, now that he doesn't have anywhere to be. His house was almost like a safe haven of sorts, a place to get away from all the screams and lingering shouts that would make his head pound even hours after the fact. 

He can't sleep. He's laying in a bed that feels far too big for him, in a home that feels almost too silent, somehow. His neck is sore, having slept on it weird for whatever few hours of sleep he did manage to get. It vaguely reminds him of the tour bus, on nights when the adrenaline would wear off and Zayn would feel tired, so fucking tired, but he could never sleep. 

Instead he's in his bed, sheets tangled at his ankles and finding himself waiting for someone's alarm to go off in a bunk. But now all he's greeted with is silence; nothing but the sound of his heart in his chest beating to a steady, constant rhythm. 

_So that's still there then_ , Zayn thinks briefly to himself. _Good to know, at least_ , as Louis would say. 

He turns onto his side, slow moving fingers looking for his phone -- though he doesn't know why he's even checking it. 

The screen lights up; the background a familiar, old picture he'd found the other day while scrolling through it. Zayn stares at it for a moment, studies it despite the blur in the corners of his eyes, his body's way of telling him how tired he is, probably. 

But Zayn knows how tired he is; has always been tired, it feels like. 

He's got a few texts, most from Louis, a couple from Harry and his mum. His mum had sent him a picture of the dog she'd bought, apparently named Rudolph, Zayn reads in mild amusement. There's also one text from Liam, but that's because he only ever calls, which explains the voicemails he's got that still need to be listened to. 

He looks once more for another name, but doesn't see it -- and locks the screen again before getting out of bed. It's half eight, according to his phone, but it feels earlier. The blinds are pulled over the window but he can still see the muted sunlight, can imagine how warm it would be against his skin as Zayn moves to get some clothes from his drawer. 

He takes a shower, letting the hot water colour his skin red -- picking up a cloth and rubbing himself clean until he's pink and raw and there's too much steam to see anything as he steps onto the tiled floor. 

With a towel around his waist Zayn steps back into his bedroom, pausing as he puts on a pair of track pants and a jumper, pulling it over his head carefully. For a moment he stops in front of his dresser, the drawer half opened as he stares at the picture in front of him. It’s old, the edges worn out and slightly faded from all the afternoons of it sitting in the sun, but it’s still there in the frame his mother had given him. 

He should move it, maybe, should put it somewhere else so he doesn’t have to think about it right now -- but something inside of him always holds back. He reaches out, briefly, brushing the picture before he pulls back, wincing as he clears his throat -- blinking the warm tears from the corner of his eyes. So he keeps it there, almost as a reminder.

Probably because somewhere tucked away inside himself, a part of Zayn believes she's going to come back. 

He finds himself waiting sometimes, unintentionally, like he would before. Making tea and leaning against the counter, the mug always warm around his always cold hands, no matter what the weather was like outside because it was always the same. Every Wednesday, when she was done with her classes, she would come and visit him.

But she never does. And so Zayn finds himself swallowing the bad taste in his mouth at the realisation when he finally drags himself up to bed, though he knows he won't sleep. 

The first thing Zayn does when he reaches the kitchen is turn on the kettle. A force of habit, he tells himself, one he remembers Liam telling him he does when they'd been on the phone one night -- maybe early morning, Zayn doesn't really know anymore. It all just blurs together at this point. 

It's almost as if it's always been just him here, Zayn briefly thinks as he takes a mug out of the cupboard. The words are faded on the side of it, from some shop he doesn't remember the name of -- one his mother had bought him on her trip to Florida one summer, just her and dad. 

He should eat. He opens a few doors and stares at the nearly empty shelves, contemplative. 

Eventually he settles on eggy bread, because that's all he knows how to make and the only ingredients he apparently has here. She used to joke about what Zayn would do, if he ever ran out of eggs and bread. 

He tries to find the humour in it now, cracking an egg and getting it all together in a bowl. 

Beside him, his phone buzzes once, twice, before Zayn picks it up and hits the answer button, vaguely registering the name _Louis Tomlinson_ as he does. 

"'Lo?" 

"You finally picked up. Brilliant." 

"Sorry," Zayn mumbles, rubbing his eyes briefly with the heel of his hand. 

"No, you're not," Louis chastises. "But it's fine."

He listens for any sarcasm, or bitterness, but it isn't there. At least Louis doesn't change. 

"Any particular reason you called?" Zayn asks, but he already knows the answer. "Why are you up so early, anyway?" 

Louis snorts. "Oh, fuck you very much, Malik, it's almost nine. I'm driving to my mum's soon, for the twins' birthday. And since I'm already late I thought -- fuck it, I'll see if the always elusive Zayn Malik will take my call. Turns out, it's my lucky day."

"Fuck off," Zayn says, half serious. He flips his piece of eggy bread; it's a little brown around the edges. "What do you want, _Lewis_."

"Don't call me that," Louis snaps immediately. _Predictable_ , Zayn thinks with a small, amused smile. One he's almost grateful Louis can't see because he would no doubt have hit his arm in response. "Anyway," he continues. "Just -- wanted to see how you were, mostly."

Zayn sighs, trying to ignore the pain still in his neck. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry." 

"Yes, well, you've been hiding so I wanted to make sure," Louis says, knowingly, because when doesn't he know?

"I 'aven't been hiding, Jesus," Zayn protests weakly. 

Louis hums in response, and Zayn can't tell if it's amused or annoyed. Probably a mixture of both. "My unanswered texts suggest otherwise," Louis says slowly, sounding almost cautious. 

The thing is, Louis _knows_ him, knows how he gets. Knows that after a few days Zayn doesn't even realize he hasn't been texting anyone back, or that he's got a still growing list of people he needs to call back. "Just get stuck in your head a bit is all," Louis would tell him on the tour bus, voice so soft that Zayn can almost hear it now, standing in the middle of his kitchen. 

"Well, before you go worrying any more, I'm fine. You can also report that back to Liam, if you'd like."

Louis scoffs, the sound of a car door closing soon following. "This isn't a check-in, or anything," he says, but he's always been a shit liar. 

Zayn doesn't argue, instead moving to get a plate to put the now finished bread onto it. "Should go, though. Just made some food," he says. 

"Yeah, yeah, trying to get rid of me," Louis says, though Zayn can hear the smile in his voice as he says it. 

"Thanks for calling, Lou," Zayn tells him. 

"Just fulfilling my duties, as ordered by Liam Payne himself," Louis says. 

"I fucking _knew_ it," Zayn says, but he's laughing before he can stop himself. 

"Harry sends his love as well," Louis says after a moment. 

A short silence lapses, and Zayn finds himself gripping his phone a little tighter as he waits for Louis to speak again and answer the unasked question in his head. When he doesn't, Zayn finally asks. 

"And how's, well. How is he --" Zayn trails off pathetically until Louis cuts him off. 

"He's alright, yeah. Keeping himself busy mostly," Louis answers. Zayn feels his heart clench in response, silently grateful Louis didn't say his name. 

"I'll talk to you later, then," Zayn says. "Have fun at the party, yeah?" 

"Ugh, don't remind me," Louis says, now sounding somewhat forlorn at the idea of being subjected to his little siblings' birthday party. "But -- you're ok?" 

"I'm ok," Zayn reassures him. 

In the brief silence that follows he can nearly hear Louis asking the tentative /are you sure?/ but it doesn't come. 

"Alright," Louis says, convinced. "I'll, um -- talk to you later then, yeah?" 

_I miss her_ , Zayn wants to say. _I miss her so fucking much and this house is too fucking big, Louis_ , he nearly wants to yell, can feel the words trapped somewhere in his throat, unsaid. 

"'Course," Zayn says before he hangs up. And, finding himself no longer hungry, he leaves the plate on the counter and goes back to his bed where he knows he won't sleep. 

 

 

In the end, it was a decision they all made, to end the band. And for a while, Zayn missed tour. Missed the songs and the long bus rides, even found himself missing the shitty tea they always had stacked in the cupboards. And sometimes, now that he's home, he misses the near deafening screams, how they would make everything else lessen to a dull sort of lull in his head. He supposes now, though, he misses that because he couldn't think then -- could only see the bright lights and hear the music in his ears. 

But they all knew it was done, and Zayn imagines they had the same ache in their bones and this large part of them that wanted to just go home, and _stay_ there. 

He doesn't regret it. He misses it, sure, but that part of his life is over now. Or -- as over as it can be, really. 

And sometimes, when he's in his bed and can't sleep, he wonders how much longer they could've gone on. But something about this -- about all of it, makes him remember how fucking tired he was, like he hardly knew what anything else felt like. Instead he only knew how it felt to be bone achingly tired, the kind that keeps you awake and leaves you wondering if you'll ever sleep again. 

Usually, if they were on the bus and he couldn't sleep he would go to Louis' bunk, other times he'd scroll mindlessly on his phone. There's not much you can do, Zayn had found over the years. 

"Why don't you just, sleep." Harry would tell him, all concerned in that gentle tone Zayn's noticed Harry has a habit of using for him. 

"Dunno." Zayn would shrug. "Bit like the pot calling the kettle black though, innit?"

Harry would scrunch his face, drawling out that same “heyyyy" in his accent Zayn knows so well. 

"I sleep. Just not at regular hours," Harry would tell him. 

He misses Harry. Misses how he makes tea; standing in front of the small kitchenette, hunched over and humming whatever song he was obsessed with at the time. 

"Rod Stewart?" Zayn asked one night, somewhere around three am in Texas, he thinks.

"Don't mock," Harry told him, rather serious; Zayn had bit the collar of his jumper to hold back his laugh. "But no, actually. Just something I wrote."

That's the thing Zayn thinks he might love about Harry most, maybe. His ability to make things that should be a big deal not be, with this casual, carefree way about him Zayn's never really been able to grasp. 

Half the time they wouldn't talk, sitting wherever they were and that was alright with them. With Harry it's easy, not needing to say anything -- they've somehow found a way to convey things without words, and Zayn's grateful for it. 

If he’s being honest, Harry was the hands of the band, in a way. Always reaching out, always gentle, always there to catch you, even if they don’t seem like they’re particularly close. But, if need be, they’d drop anything to help -- which Zayn knows Harry would, if he needed him. If any of them did, really. 

It's a strange analogy, which is probably why Zayn’s never told him that.

Somewhere around six in the morning, Liam would get out of bed. His eyes would be puffy from lack of sleep, always yawning and practically dragging his feet to make some coffee. Harry would've usually dozed off by now, head on Zayn's shoulder and his breathing coming out in slow, warm puffs against his shoulder. 

"Did you sleep at all?" Liam would always ask, wordlessly handing Zayn a mug of coffee. 

He always put too much milk in it, but Zayn wouldn't ever have the heart to tell him. "A bit, I guess," he would answer, stirring his spoon around. 

"Well," Liam would tell him, voice low and slow, as it always is when he just wakes up. "That's something, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Zayn told him, feeling Liam's gentle, still warm hand grip his shoulder before he would stand, leaving his always half full mug in the sink. 

Liam would nod, drinking his coffee and eating a banana before going off to work out, the sound of the door closing behind him. 

He always forgets how sturdy Liam is; solid, as Louis called him once, something that has stuck with Zayn. And in the early hours of the morning, watching him leave, Zayn would tuck away the feeling of Liam’s hand on his shoulder, gentle and concerned but never pushing him to talk about it, instead waiting for Zayn to come to him.

And that’s the thing about Liam, that’s how it’s always been with Liam. Everyone always gave him the nickname ‘daddy direction’ which, while a bit ridiculous, had a bit of truth to it. In the small family they’d formed, he was the foundation underneath them, making sure they were steady. 

In between those few, early hours of the morning with Liam gone and Harry already asleep, Zayn would find a bit of sleep -- eyes heavy and the taste of coffee still on his tongue before he would drift off. 

 

More often than not, Zayn would wake up to Louis' foot in his face. 

"Wake the fuck up, Malik, it's half one."

Zayn would grumble something before actually getting up, rubbing his eyes and accepting whatever food Louis put into his hands.

Sound check was always at two or half past, depending on what time they got in so that gave him half an hour to get ready before they’d need to be in the auditorium. 

The thing about Louis is how well he always understands Zayn, even then -- when he was tired and crabby and not in the mood for anything but sleep, he’s the one who would somehow nudge him to go on through the day. 

“You know,” Louis told him, nudging his foot into Zayn’s ankle gently. “If you slept you wouldn’t have this problem.”

Zayn would roll his eyes, seeing the way Louis’ lips would turn up into a smile -- the kind that’s soft and sleepy and a bit disarming, if you aren’t fully prepared for it. “Sage advice there, arsehole,” Zayn replied before going back to change, his footsteps slow and his head aching.

Unlike with Harry, Zayn talked with Louis a lot. Half because Louis has this sixth sense when it comes to Zayn, but also because he likes talking with Louis. He sits, hands usually folded in his lap or leaning back against whatever he’s sitting on -- brows furrowed, and concentrated, a look similar to Liam’s. 

And it’s nice -- being listened too, Zayn realized, especially with Louis. Zayn isn’t one for talking all that much, but with Louis it’s easy. 

The one that holds Zayn together; that holds all of them together, really.

 

He’s watching reruns of The Office because it’s the only thing on television worth watching, sitting on his couch and not eating the plate of crisps beside him.

He’s restless, can’t sit for more than five minutes without itching for something to do -- though the list of things he actually needs done is rather small.

Zayn stands, leaving the telly on as he walks out to the front door, keys in his pockets as he gets into the driver side. The radio is loud, playing Drake, but he doesn’t turn it down. Instead he starts the car, hands on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the driveway.

It’s nearing eleven at night, the sky dark as he makes his way to the Tesco Express near his house. There’s hardly anyone there at busy hours of the day, and Zayn prefers it that way, likes getting his shopping done in peace.

Zayn doesn’t think about the list on his fridge, left there months ago, not written by himself, but instead in that messy, ridiculous scrawl he knows so well. It only has three items on it, because the person who wrote it had been a little drunk -- swaying in Zayn’s kitchen one night, and Zayn can remember how he had smelled, like beer and smoke from a fire, but determined to get his shopping list done for him so he could go out the next morning.

“Can’t read your writing when you’re drunk,” Zayn told him, but he'd just laughed -- like it was the funniest thing in the world.

He'd grinned, all wide and bright, so fucking bright Zayn can remember, now in his car driving down the familiar road. 

He doesn’t have a list, doesn’t even know if he needs more bread or washing powder but he needs to get out of that fucking house and out of his fucking head.

Half the lights in the sign have burnt out, the car park nearly empty as Zayn locks the door behind him. He’s tired, so fucking tired but he doesn’t think about that as he picks up a basket.

Fruit, maybe. Bread. Peanut butter. Maybe some salad, or something, if he feels like being particularly healthy one day this week.

He walks down the aisles, boots making a loud noise against the floor as he runs his finger over the labels of cans, biting on his lower lip. 

Crisps are good, maybe some crackers, Zayn thinks briefly to himself. Maybe if he debates what kind to get he won’t have a fucking breakdown in a goddamn corner shop.

 

He’s debating what kind of cookies to buy when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_@NiallOfficial: Good practice with the lads of LIC today ! Knees feeling better and so am I !!!_

For a moment, Zayn simply stares at the screen -- feeling his stomach clench and his heart like it’s lost somewhere in his throat. He’d forgotten the other night when the notifications to get his tweets was turned on, against his will, though at the time he was rather alright with the idea, it didn’t seem to bother him.

Now, though, Zayn swallows as he takes in a slow, deep breath. “Shit,” he breathes out, debating if he should text Louis, maybe Liam, or something.

He doesn’t. 

_hey bro. buying you a box of these because they’re your favourite but also really fucking disgusting :)_ he types out, thinks about deleting it but ends up hitting send anyway, along with a picture of the cookies in his hand and tries to ignore the small bit of regret lingering as he does. Birthday cake Oreos, the kind Niall would eat non stop whenever they were on tour. They’re disgusting and Zayn hates them, but always found himself eating them whenever Niall was around, regardless of how terrible they were. 

And so for some reason Zayn doesn’t know he puts them in his cart, and tries not to read too much into it.

For a few minutes he waits for a response, standing in the middle of the store and feeling a bit ridiculous, but nothing comes. And so he pays for the few things in his basket, his phone burning a hole in his pocket all the way back out to his car and to his house.

He’s just busy, Zayn tells himself as he leaves his shopping on the kitchen table as he walks upstairs to his room. They’re just cookies anyway, he shouldn’t be making a big deal out of it.

 

He doesn’t eat the cookies. Instead they stay on his counter, unopened, and making him weirdly uncomfortable whenever he looks over at them.

But he keeps them there, for whatever reason, and tries to ignore them as best he can. Or, as best as one can ignore a bag of cookies, he thinks to himself.

He’d gotten a SnapChat from Harry this morning, somewhere in LA, Zayn reckons, with the caption ‘ _wish you were here_ ’ along with a picture of of him on some boat in the water. Zayn texts him that he’s a massive dick, to which he unsurprisingly gets no response, locking his phone and leaving it on the couch. 

He’s halfway through making a cup of tea he most likely isn’t going to finish when his phone buzzes, loud and insistent from the couch as he glances toward it. He reads the name, thumb hovering over the answer button before he finally presses it.

“Hello?” Zayn answers after a few rings, feeling his chest tighten.

“Hi,” comes a familiar voice, so familiar that it makes a small lump grow in Zayn’s throat. Fuck, he misses him.

“How -- are you?” Zayn asks, because it seems like the best thing he could ask, really.

“Fine, yeah,” he says. Zayn can imagine the look on his face as he says it, tight and pinched together. “I got your text, yesterday.”

Zayn lets himself smile, leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “Did you?” 

“Yes, you dick.”

Zayn snorts, turning off the kettle as he closes his eyes for a moment. “Bit rude to say, Niall,” he chastises. 

“They’re fucking great cookies and you just go around calling them shit,” Niall says, sounding rather offended. 

“Well, I mean I still have them, if you wanted to come over and pick them up since I’m not going to eat them,” Zayn suggests after a moment.

Niall’s quiet for a few moments, and when he speaks again Zayn can hear how tired he is -- the slow speech in his words, the way his accent runs thicker through his sentences. He can picture Niall’s eyes, puffy and hair a right mess, most likely wearing a too big jumper and that pair of old, worn out track pants he always insists on wearing to bed.

“I’m in Portland,” Niall tells him.

Zayn pauses, his fingertip tracing slow circles on his counter top. “Oregon?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Niall answers. “I’m here for my knee? There’s one of the best physiotherapists here, so I’ve been staying for the past few weeks.”

It’s weird then, Zayn decides, that he didn’t know that. He should have known that. He should have known that before Niall went in for his surgery, but he didn’t even know Niall was _going_ in for surgery until he’d texted Louis asking if he wanted to come over for some pizza or something and Louis had said he was at the hospital, with Niall.

Zayn hadn’t texted Louis back, then. And he regrets it now, arm around his waist and feeling guilty for not being there.

“How are you doing then? With all of it?” Zayn asks, closing his eyes tighter.

“It’s alright. Fucking hurts but, I should be done by the end of next week, maybe the week after,” Niall says.

He sounds distant, Zayn thinks to himself. Niall never sounds distant, is the thing. He’s always so close, even when he’s on the phone -- full of questions and needing answers. But he’s subdued now, and Zayn isn’t sure he likes it.

“That’s really good, Ni,” Zayn encourages.

“Not bad, yeah,” Niall says slowly. Zayn swallows. 

He feels like he should say something, but he isn’t sure what. So he settles on gripping the counter top, lets the silence pass between them for a few moments.

“So Portland is nice?”

“Pretty nice,” Niall says. “You wouldn’t like it though. It’s all on the water,” he adds.

“Probably wouldn’t like it that much, then,” Zayn says.

“Should go, though,” Niall says. “Just thought I’d call and -- check in, mostly.”

“Good to talk to you,” Zayn says, hoping it comes across as honest.

Niall hums. “You too,” he says. “Night, Zayn.”

“Night, Ni,” he says before the call ends, leaving him in the kitchen alone.

 

He tells Liam about the call a few days later, when they’re on the phone for some reason or another. 

“How was it?” Liam asks.

Zayn’s sitting in his drawing room, the smell of paint thick in the air as he sighs. “It was weird,” Zayn tells him truthfully.

He can practically see Liam’s frown from where he’s sitting, tight lipped and holding back what he really wants to say. “Why weird?” Liam asks.

Zayn puts down the brush, giving up on painting entirely. His head hurts, and he’s got too much going on now to even think about focusing on any sort of drawing. 

“Just -- weird, I don’t know. Unlike Niall, I guess,” Zayn answers.

“You might be imagining it,” Liam says, because Liam is the one who assumes the best in any situation -- as he’s always done.

He doesn’t even know what he’s drawing; just a bunch of lines on a page that don’t make sense, Zayn thinks as he rubs a hand along his face. He can see specks of paint on his skin, different colours as he shrugs to no one.

“Don’t think I am,” he says. “I _know_ him, Liam.”

Liam doesn’t argue. Instead he answers, a little quieter this time, “I know you do, Z.”

“I don’t know why I bought those fucking cookies,” Zayn says, annoyed, but he’s more so annoyed at himself than anyone.

“Because you miss him, probably,” Liam says.

“Probably,” Zayn repeats, scratching just under his chin. He hasn’t shaved in days and it’s starting to show; dark hair and itchy all along his face, but he doesn’t do anything about it. 

Liam’s right. Zayn knows he’s right. 

“So what are you going to do?” Liam asks him.

He’s hungry, but he doesn’t know what to eat. Doesn’t know what he wants, really.

“Fuck, Liam, I don’t know,” Zayn admits, biting down on his lower lip. In the far corner of the room he can see it -- the small space Niall had claimed for his own, his little design along the wall. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on it too long, instead putting the lid back onto one of the paint jars.

“You could call him again, or something,” Liam suggests.

“And what, deal with long silences and him judging me? Sounds great,” Zayn deadpans.

“He’s not judging you, Zayn, for Christ’s sake,” Liam says quickly. “You know him better than that.”

Zayn sighs, nodding. “You’re right,” he mumbles, mostly as an apology.

“You said he called you first, right?” Liam asks, accepting Zayn’s apology, apparently.

“Yeah.”

“So just -- call him again. Maybe that’s just all he wants,” Liam says.

Zayn pauses, considering. “Alright,” he concedes, finally. “I’ll -- call him, I guess.”

“Good,” Liam says, and he sounds satisfied at that response.

Zayn’s still not entirely sure, stomach in knots at the idea of talking to Niall again. But he doesn’t say this, instead listening to Liam start in on a story about his sister’s birthday, leaning against the small couch in his art room and letting Liam’s voice distract him from his thoughts, for now.

 

He goes to see that new Transformers film later that week, partially because he can’t seem to help himself, and also partially because he’s really fucking bored. When he gets there there’s no one else in the theatre except for a couple near the front as he goes to sit in the very back along the wall.

But Zayn doesn’t focus on the movie, instead his phone burning a hole in his pocket. And without even thinking he takes it out, dialing the number he knows better than anyone else’s.

“Hello?” comes Niall’s voice.

“Hey,” Zayn says.

“Zayn?” Niall asks. “What’s -- so fucking loud? Are you at a party?”

“No,” Zayn answers, leaning back in his seat. If he closes his eyes it’s almost like Niall’s beside him, sitting in these uncomfortable seats and close enough to touch. “I’m at the cinema, actually.”

Niall laughs, loud and ringing in Zayn’s ear and fuck, he’s missed that sound. “Fucking Christ, you’re calling me from a movie? Is it really that bad?”

“Terrible, Ni, you’ve no idea,” Zayn says.

“What film?” Niall asks.

“That new Transformers one,” Zayn tells him.

“Are you serious,” Niall asks. “You actually paid money for that? _Zayn_.”

Zayn smiles widely, tapping a finger against his thigh in a familiar beat. “Don’t judge me,” is all he says.

“I’m gonna fucking judge you all I want,” Niall retorts, voice loud in Zayn’s ear, louder than the explosions and yelling going on in front of him. Niall’s always been louder than anything else, though, so it makes sense, really.

“Terrible,” Zayn says. 

“Whatever,” Niall brushes his comment off easily. “What’s happening right now?”

“Dunno, really. Mark Wahlberg is yelling a lot,” Zayn says.

“Sounds like it’s Oscar worthy,” Niall says.

Zayn nearly laughs into the back of his hand. “I should hope so, after all the money they used to make this piece of shit,” he says.

Niall laughs again, and Zayn makes a silent mental tally of the times he does laugh, tucked away in his head to remember later.

“Couldn’t pay me to see that,” Niall says.

“Not even if I bought you those disgusting nachos you like?” Zayn asks.

There’s a pause. “I might,” Niall says slowly. “But only because those nachos are fucking amazing.”

“Gross,” Zayn says.

“Fuck off, they’re so good,” Niall argues.

Zayn hums, listening to the disgruntled tone in Niall’s tone as he leans his head back. “Hey, Zayn?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah?” Zayn replies, yawning into the back of his hand. 

“I was just -- thinking,” Niall starts, sounding nervous. 

“And …” Zayn trails off, waiting for him to continue patiently.

“It’s just -- I mean, this place I’m staying at is pretty big, and it’s just me and sometimes this other guy but like, mostly just me,” Niall continues.

“Is this a booty call from Portland?” Zayn asks, hearing Niall swear under his breath in response.

“Jesus,” he says, “ _no_ , it’s not. I’m just -- I don’t know, if you’re not busy you could come down for a few days, if you wanted? But if you’ve got stuff to do that’s fine, I guess,” he finishes.

“Sure,” Zayn answers, because he doesn’t have any reason to say no, really. “I’ll be there.”

 

 

“You don’t like water.”

“Portland isn’t, like, solely in water, Louis,” Zayn responds, tossing another shirt into his suitcase.

“Yes, I realise,” Louis deadpans. “But it’s like -- on the edge of the water.”

“Do you not want me to go? Is that what this is? Because you’ll miss me too much?” Zayn asks, raising an eyebrow.

Louis rolls his eyes, leaning back against Zayn’s bed with a loud sigh. “That’s hardly it,” he says, voice muffled where his face is pressed into a pillow.

“Then what is it?” Zayn asks. He’s mostly just been throwing clothes haphazardly into his suitcase. Considering his flight leaves in about five hours, so he needs to get his shit together -- literally and figuratively.

“I mean,” Louis begins, and Zayn already knows this is going to be one of those ‘tough love’ conversations. “You haven’t spoken to him in what, months? And now you’re just hopping on a plane to see him?”

“He asked me to come,” Zayn protests.

Louis props himself up on his elbows, blinking slowly. “And if I asked you to eat a raw egg, would you?”

“No,” Zayn says. “That’s fucking disgusting. This, is a plane to Portland. Much easier.”

Louis doesn’t seem convinced, Zayn can easily tell by the way his brow is furrowed, trying to make sense of Zayn’s suitcase. “How long are you going for?”

“A few days, maybe a week? I don’t know. He didn’t really say,” Zayn says.

“Right,” Louis says slowly.

Zayn stares at his things, rubbing his hands along his face. He can’t stand for too long, can’t stay still or he’s going to change his mind -- can feel the worry and tension building between his shoulders. But he’s going, he’s not going to back out now.

“Do I need anything else?”

Louis shrugs, one leg tucked under the other as he kicks the top of Zayn’s suitcase closed. “Don’t think so,” he says finally.

“Alright,” Zayn says. “Alright,” he repeats, taking in a deep breath. “So I’m going to go, then.”

Louis is giving him a look that Zayn doesn’t say anything about, instead leaning down to do up the zip and pick up his jumper beside Louis. 

“Have you given this more than ten minutes of thought?” Louis asks.

Zayn shakes his head. “No.”

Louis mutters “you stupid twat,” before leaning and pulling Zayn into a hug. “Let’s get you to the airport then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, gripping Louis’ shirt and trying to tell himself to breathe.

 

 

Zayn hates planes, and all those years they’ve travelled on them has not, apparently, helped his affection grow for them.

Right now he’s sitting beside an older lady who’s chewing her gum rather loudly, headphones loud as Zayn tilts his head back -- closing his eyes and trying to focus on something.

“Be safe,” Louis said to him when Zayn had been standing at the terminal, bag in hand.

“It’s Portland,” Zayn reminded him. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Lou.”

Louis scoffed. “You never know, Malik,” is what he’d said.

Zayn keeps his eyes closed; and even when the safety announcements start -- even when his phone buzzes in his pocket, he doesn’t move.

The couple in front of him are talking, voices low and discussing something like meeting their parents at the airport; Zayn can't really tell from where he's sitting. He grips the edge of his arm rest as the plane starts to taxi along. He doesn’t focus on the way his chest tightens at the sudden, jerky movement.

“Gum?”

He opens his eyes, slowly, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach as he nods. “Thank you,” he tells the woman as he takes a piece, putting it into his mouth.

All the other boys didn’t mind flying. Harry liked it, actually, always would crowd up against the plane windows and take pictures of whatever they were passing over while Zayn would try to stop himself from throwing up somewhere in another seat.

But Harry’s not here, and instead he’s got gum that tastes like something with fruit in it as he chews it, slowly, the plane starting to take off.

It’s a few minutes before they’re high enough that the seatbelt sign turns off, which makes Zayn feel a bit more at ease as he takes out his phone. There’s a text, opening it as he tries to steady his breathing.

_Hope you didn’t forget the oreos !!! :)_

Zayn laughs quietly to himself, thinking about how in a few hours he’s going to see that familiar head of bottled blonde hair -- and tries to calm the fluttering his stomach at the thought.

 

A few people recognize him on the plane, he can see them staring at him and he tries to ignore it, flipping through a book he’d taken with him. 

“Going on vacation?” the woman besides him asks a little while later.

He turns, slightly, forcing a small smile. “Kind of, yeah. Visiting a friend,” he answers. “You?”

The woman gets a knowing sort of look to her face as Zayn pauses, blinking slowly as he swallows wordlessly.

“Seeing my son,” she starts, hands folded in her lap. “He just opened a bakery, so I told him I would come after it’s up and running.”

“Sounds nice,” Zayn tells her.

The woman laughs, the sound low and pleasant. “Won’t be,” she says.

Zayn pauses, brows furrowing. “Why -- not?”

“Because I told him he couldn’t do it,” the woman says, an amused smile on her features. “So mostly this visit is going to be him proving me wrong, which. I can’t say I’m all that unhappy about.”

Zayn nods, running a hand through his hair. “But that’s not all that exciting,” she says, looking at Zayn curiously now. “Have you know this person long? Your friend?”

Zayn runs his tongue over his lower lip, considering. “A while, yeah,” he says.

“Did they move?” she asks.

He should be uncomfortable with all the questions she’s asking him, but there’s something familiar about the wrinkles in her corner of her features -- or the way her eyes are soft, unassuming. Reminds him of his mother, Zayn realises as he shakes his head. “No, no,” he says after a moment. “He um -- he’s just there for a little bit but nothing, like, permanent.” 

“That’s good, then, isn’t it?” she asks.

Zayn takes in a deep breath, looking at his hands -- picking at the skin as he nods. “Should be,” he says.

“You don’t seem too convinced,” she tells him.

Zayn laughs, a little, the nerves starting to settle in him now. “No, it’s -- it’ll be fine. I’m just not all that fond of flying, I guess,” he says.

The woman doesn’t argue. “Well, just think. After a few hours you’ll have nothing to do but see him again, right?”

Zayn’s mouth goes dry, the realisation hitting him as he stares up at the ceiling. “Right, yeah,” he says, slowly.

 

He rents a car, because it’s easiest and he doesn’t want the hassle of a cab or any sort of driver. 

The woman hands him his keys, the directions to Niall’s house on his phone as he takes it out, now standing in the middle of the airport. A sense of dread has found its way to his stomach, real and insistent as he tries to ignore it -- instead walking out into the car park.

Portland is sort of like London with its dark, grey clouds that seem to always be threatening rain, it looks like. It’s cooler, too, Zayn having to pull his jacket tighter around his body before unlocking the front seat. 

Zayn generally has no real sense of direction, so the fact that he’s some place he’s never been, looking for a house he’s never seen, is perhaps not the best of ideas he’s ever had.

Niall had offered to come and get him but with his knee Zayn had told him to stay home and rest up, which he’s possibly regretting slightly now -- backing out of the parking space. 

“Ever seen Sleepless in Seattle?” Liam asked him before he’d left, an amused smile on his lips.

“No,” Zayn said, confused. “Should I have?”

“Would add to the romantic mood,” Liam said, shrugging.

“Oh, fuck off,” Zayn said, shoving his shoulder lightly. “I’m visiting to help him with knee, you dick.”

“His knee, right,” Liam said, winking, because he’s a bastard.

“Yes, Liam, his _knee_. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Dunno,” Liam told him. “You’re going to have convince me and Harry, I think. And so far you’re doing a shit job of it.”

“You and Harry are both twats,” Zayn snapped.

He reminds himself to text Liam later that if that movie he’d suggested was anything like the scenery suggests, it’ll be a long, dull movie about rain. 

He’s also a bit lost, but that’s not important, Zayn tells himself as he keeps driving. He’ll find his way eventually, maybe, he thinks with a small bit of panic.

 

A little while later he stops at a gas station because he really has no idea where he’s going. He picks up a bag of crisps and a magazine as the man behind the counter directs him where to go.

Apparently he drove half an hour out of the way, paying for his items before he starts the car up once again. The radio’s playing some top forty station, a song he doesn’t know as he grips the steering wheel -- telling himself that he has no real reason to be freaking the fuck out right now.

 

The house is beside the water, a dark blue with white trim -- something he’s always imagined Niall in, somehow, Zayn thinks briefly to himself as he gets out, taking his bag along with him.

He’s late, so he shouldn’t be stalling by checking his phone and walking possibly a little more slowly up the driveway to the front door. 

And for about half a minute he considers getting back in the car and driving back to the airport. Before he can do that, he rings the doorbell, hearing the echoes from inside as he waits.

“Hi,” Zayn hears Niall’s voice, _really_ hears it -- not on a phone, or some shitty video chat but here, in front of Zayn, eyes bright and smile wide.

“Hey,” Zayn parrots back, feeling weirdly out of place.

The first thing he registers is a brace, black and prominent on Niall’s knee and the second thing is that Niall’s hugging him; and it’s so familiar that Zayn has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to try and pull himself together.

Niall’s warm, always warm as he wraps his arms easily around Zayn’s waist -- holding them there for a few moments. And Zayn knows this, knows this better than any road in Portland, more than a lot of things -- he closes his eyes for a few moments, reminding himself to breathe.

“So you found it okay?” Niall asks, stepping back and giving Zayn some room to step inside.

“Fine, yeah,” Zayn answers, leaving out the bit about him getting lost for the better half of the past hour. 

But Niall doesn’t seem to notice, or ask any more questions on it as Zayn looks over towards him. He’s got a crutch under one of his arms, leaning against it noticeably as he clears his throat.

“I’ve got some -- things on the barbeque, if you’re hungry? But you’re probably tired as fuck, because it’s like three in the morning back in London --”

Zayn smiles a little, shrugging. “I can just put my stuff away and come eat with you, if you want?”

Niall takes a moment before he nods slowly in response. “It’s just the third room, on the left, down that hallway,” he instructs, motioning down a little way to Zayn’s left with his crutch. 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Zayn tells him, picking up his bag.

“I'm out on the patio, through the living room,” Niall says, but he’s still staring at Zayn, unmoving. 

After a few seconds he speaks again, voice low. “I’m glad you’re here, Zayn.”

Zayn feels his throat tighten as he takes in a slow, deep breath. “Me too, Ni,” is all he says before walking down to his room.

It’s empty, save for a bed and a dresser -- a television and a door to a bathroom as Zayn kicks the door shut softly behind him. He feels far from home, almost suffocatingly so, standing in this room as he feels the carpet beneath his socked feet.

Instead of focusing on the weird twist in his stomach Zayn settles on putting his bag on his bed. Next he unzips it, opening it but not moving anything out of it. It’s still a mess from when he’d shoved everything in it in an almost frenzy before his leaving.

This room reminds him of Niall; this entire fucking house, even though he hasn’t even really seen it, reminds him of Niall. It’s almost overwhelming to him, standing there, trying to tell himself that it’s a good thing he’s here. He’s supposed to be here, it feels like, which then doesn’t explain why he’s so keen on running away, right now.

He’s so fucking tired. It’s three am back home, which would be about the time he’d probably pass out and get a few hours of sleep. 

Outside he can see the street, the water not too far from it as Zayn taps his fingertips on the windowsill. He should unpack, probably, but he doesn’t seem to have the energy to focus on that as Zayn opens the door, walking down the empty hallway.

There’s a lot of windows, whatever sunlight left in the day coming through them and leaving the floor warm against Zayn’s otherwise cold feet. 

As he’d said, Niall’s outside on the back porch -- barely visible through the small bit of smoke coming from the barbecue. Zayn slides open the patio doors, closing them behind himself as he glances around for a few moments. It’s big, a fence along the back and leading off to what looks to be some kind of dock into the water.

“All unpacked?” Niall asks, his back still too Zayn where he’s standing.

“Something like that,” Zayn mutters, yawning as he takes a step toward Niall now. “What’s all this?”

Niall blinks, looking up at him, as if it’s some sort of surprise that Zayn isn’t keeping his distance, or something. “Just um -- chicken, mostly. I didn’t have anything else and didn’t really feel like running to the shops, so. Chicken it is,” Niall tells him.

Zayn smirks, shrugging. “Looks good to me,” he says.

Niall nods, flipping another piece as Zayn shivers slightly, the breeze cold from the water as he sits down on the top step of the deck silently. 

Now would be the time to apologize, he thinks to himself as he absently picks at a loose thread on his jumper. But he doesn’t, instead focusing on the water in front of him -- wide and expanding, the sky cloudy again, and the water a dark blue. 

“Nice, isn’t it?” Niall asks him.

Zayn nods, licking his lips. “Really nice, yeah,” he agrees.

He’s not sure he would know how to begin with an apology right now, because Zayn imagines he would have a few things to say he’s sorry for, most of which he doesn’t have the energy to remember right now.

He takes out a pack of cigarettes from his sweater pocket, having picked them up from the gas station as he lights it between his lips. And as soon as he inhales Zayn feels himself relax a bit, the familiar smell and taste on his tongue as he closes his eyes.

“Thought you were quitting?” comes Niall’s voice a few moments later.

“I am,” Zayn says, considering. “Just -- you know. Moment of weakness, I guess.”

Niall snorts, but doesn’t push the subject any further where he’s standing. He’s never really been a fan of Zayn smoking, but neither of them really talked about it much. But he does remember one night, sitting outside on the hotel balcony -- him, Niall, and Harry, when Harry had taken a cigarette to “just try it once” as he’d said.

“A bad influence,” Niall said, nudging Zayn’s hip with his own.

He wonders, briefly, if Niall still thinks that -- his expression unreadable as he flips a piece of meat. The air is colder still, the sky getting darker as he brings his knees to his chest.

“Can I do anything to help?” Zayn finally asks, flicking the end of his cigarette.

Niall pauses before looking over at him, brows furrowed slightly. “You could -- there’s some plates inside? And some beer, if you want,” says Niall, motioning through the door. 

“I’ll grab them,” Zayn offers. “Do you wanna eat inside? Or out?”

“Inside, maybe,” Niall says. “Looks like it might rain.”

Zayn nods, not saying anything as he stands up, putting out the last bit of his cigarette before he steps through the doors once more.

The television is on, playing something Zayn doesn’t recognise as he looks for some plates. They’re above the oven and he takes two out -- grabbing some cutlery from a drawer. There’s a small table off the kitchen as he puts them in front of two seats.

Next come the beers, and he puts them down onto the table, taking off the caps as he hears Niall’s voice from outside, calling his name.

“Yeah?” asks Zayn, putting his head out the door.

“Sorry, shit, just -- could you take the chicken maybe? I have my crutch and I --” Niall’s asking, cheeks slightly flushed as Zayn immediately takes a step toward him.

“Yeah, sure, ‘course,” Zayn says quickly, reaching out to take the plate of chicken. 

Niall follows him inside, his crutch loud against the floor as Zayn puts down the chicken -- taking the bowl of salad from the counter and putting it beside the meat.

It sort of reminds Zayn of Niall’s house back home; open, and with lots of windows. Zayn takes his seat beside Niall, who’s at the head of the table -- makes a point of putting his crutch down beside his chair.

He picks at his salad, neither of them really saying anything and Zayn’s not sure how he feels about it, the silence between them. But he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to push the conversation as he finds a tomato between some leaves of lettuce.

He wordlessly picks it out, putting it on the side of his plate. There’s another, as he does the same thing again, crossing his feet underneath his chair wordlessly.

“Shit,” says Niall after a moment, followed by a laugh.

Zayn looks up at him, confused. “What? What’s wrong?” he asks.

“There’s tomatoes in here,” Niall begins, his grin widening. “You fucking _hate_ tomatoes.” 

Zayn bites his lower lip, holding back his own laugh as he shrugs. “It’s nothing, really,” he says simply.

“Remember when you used to give yours to Liam?” Niall asks, reminiscent. “He would be cross with you for ages.”

Zayn snorts now, putting a bit of dressing onto his salad. “Yeah, fuck, one day he didn’t talk to me for what was -- three hours?”

“Something like that,” Niall says, face bright and cheeks slightly flushed.

Niall’s cheeks only flush when he’s laughed particularly hard at something, or when he’s had something to drink -- or, a few things to drink, actually, Zayn thinks to himself.

“Louis finally snapped at him, you remember? Told him he had to talk to me or else he would make him,” Zayn says.

“Fuck,” Niall laughs again, this time louder -- filling Zayn’s head, just how he remembers it. “Liam pouted the entire show.”

Zayn shakes his head, the vivid image of Liam’s face in his mind as he takes a bit of his salad. They fall into another silence again, this time more comfortable as Zayn takes a sip of his beer, slowly. It’s nice and cold; clearing his head a bit as he swallows it.

Outside the sky is darker than a few minutes before, the rain starting to fall -- making a tapping sound against the roof, the windows getting wet as Zayn blinks.

“Raining,” he comments, not looking up from his bowl.

“Always fuckin’ rains here,” says Niall. “Almost as bad London.”

Zayn smiles, a little, even though it’s slightly forced as he finishes his salad. They eat in mostly silence, talking briefly and about trivial, small things. But it’s a start, Zayn tells himself as he collects the dishes to bring into the kitchen.

“Can just put them in the dishwasher, if you want,” Niall instructs.

Zayn nods, putting them in the almost empty racks carefully. He’s getting tired again; the kind that weighs him down, makes his head feel like it’s getting bigger -- almost as if there’s not enough space for all his thoughts, like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin at any moment.

Niall’s moved himself into the living room, down in front of a couch -- laptop on his lap and crutch at his feet on the floor. Zayn pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I think I might -- go to bed,” Zayn says after a moment of standing there, seeing Niall turn his head to look at him.

“Shit, yeah, ‘course,” Niall says. “Must be pretty wiped.”

Zayn shrugs. “Nothing I’m not used too,” he says.

“True,” Niall says in agreement. “I’ll um -- see you tomorrow then, I guess.”

“Sure,” Zayn says, feeling his stomach jump a bit as Niall gives him a small, tentative smile.

Zayn takes a step back, the television still playing as he runs a hand through his hair. He feels as though he aches all over, possibly from exhaustion but also possibly from being here, in this house, this close to Niall -- the closest he’s been in months, really.

He’d forgotten how much being around Niall affects him, and it’s not in any small way, not by any means. 

When he reaches his room Zayn takes four steps towards the bed before nearly collapsing onto it, eyes closing and not letting himself think anymore -- just drift off to sleep.

 

He wakes up a half past six, eyes heavy and vision blurry as he wipes at his eyes. For a moment he considers trying to sleep again, but he can tell by the way his eyes won’t close that he won’t be able to. Not for a while, anyway.

So he gets up slowly, being careful not to make any sounds that could wake Niall -- moving to take a jumper from his bag. It’s still dark outside, the smell of rain coming through his window as Zayn runs a hand along his face.

It feels more peaceful than in London; Portland, Zayn finds as he pads into the kitchen. He wants coffee, it’s the first thing he wants as he stands in front of the machine for a few moments. He doesn’t have a fucking clue how to work this machine, as if staring at it for long enough will somehow get it to work.

If Liam was here he’d figure it out in a few minutes; he has a knack for figuring out things like coffee machines quickly, Zayn can recall. Which isn’t even fair because he doesn’t even _drink_ coffee.

There’s a kettle on the other end of the counter. He takes off the lid, putting some water from the tap and filling it up. He hits the button, the red light turning on as he finds a mug in one of the cupboards -- the tea in the one beside it. And, in typical Niall fashion, the only kinds of tea he has are Earl Grey, which Zayn can’t fucking stand, and lemon ginger. The only time he ever had lemon ginger was when his throat hurt on tour, would make a point of putting more honey in it which Zayn never understood.

“Too sweet,” he would tell Niall, face scrunched in slight disgust.

“Never too sweet,” Niall told him.

He takes the honey lemon, putting the tea bag into his mug as he waits patiently for the water to boil. As Zayn waits he takes out his phone, thumbing through his messages and telling himself he should reply to at least Liam and Louis, if anything.

He’s a mixture of too hot and too cold, shivering slightly as Zayn rubs his free hand along his arm. 

“There’s coffee beside the machine.” He hears a voice, jumping slightly.

Niall’s in the doorway to the kitchen, looking sleepy and tired, as he always does before noon. He walks toward the counter, crutch ever present under his arm and wearing a jumper Zayn thinks might be his -- or, was, his at some point.

“Don’t know how to work it,” Zayn says.

Niall smiles, a small upturn of his lips as he nods. “I’ll make some,” he says.

“Why are you up so early?” Zayn asks, looking at the time on the stove clock. 6:42 am.

“Appointment,” Niall says. “Takes almost an hour to drive there, so. Early start.”

“What time?” 

“Eight thirty,” Niall answers, the smell of coffee filling the kitchen.

Zayn nods, leaving his mug of unmade tea as he watches the coffee drip through the maker. “Breakfast?” Zayn asks.

“I usually have porridge,” Niall says. Zayn makes a face.

“You hate porridge,” Zayn says knowingly.

“I fucking know,” Niall says, leaning against the counter. “But the doctors say it’s healthy.”

“Ah, well. If the doctors say it, it must be true,” Zayn says, smirking.

“Fuck off,” Niall says. Zayn half expects him to shove his shoulder, but it never comes. 

He hands over a mug of coffee wordlessly, along with a carton of milk, Zayn pouring a bit into his coffee. “You want some, then?” Niall asks, holding up a package of oats.

“No thanks. Coffee’s fine,” Zayn says.

Niall rolls his eyes and continues to make his porridge as Zayn walks a few steps toward the back steps, opening them as he goes outside. 

It’s humid; the rain from last night still lingering in the air as he takes out his packet of cigarettes, not being able to shake the need for one as he takes one out, giving in. 

He lights it, a small bit of relief going through him as he inhales, letting it calm him. He’s going to smell like smoke for the rest of the day, the scent always lingering on his own clothes longer than on Harry’s, or even Louis’, for whatever reason.

There’s still no sun today; the clouds grey and ever looming, he thinks to himself. Inside he can hear Niall moving around a bit, probably humming something to himself as Zayn closes his eyes for a few moments, tries to calm the way his heart is beating in his chest.

He finishes his cigarette quickly, possibly too quickly as he debates having a second one -- but decides against it as he goes back inside.

“Gonna fucking rain again today,” is the first thing Niall says to him. “Welcome to Portland, I guess.”

“I can feel the welcome,” Zayn says, mostly sarcastic. 

Niall’s stirring his now made porridge, adding a bit of brown sugar to it as Zayn stands beside him. There’s a moment of hesitation before Niall gently leans his head against Zayn’s arm; just a little, but still noticeable as Zayn feels him exhale slowly.

“Smell like smoke,” Niall says, voice quiet and muffled.

“Happens when you take up smoking, I hear,” Zayn says.

Niall rolls his eyes, moving his head once more as he takes a bite of his oatmeal. Zayn moves to sit at the island, coffee still in his hands as he takes a sip, slowly. There’s a newspaper in front of him as he pulls it toward himself, scanning the front page.

“Do you want -- to come with?”

When Zayn looks up Niall’s looking at him from across the island, his bowl empty as he goes to rinse it in the sink.

“What, to your appointment?” Zayn asks.

Niall shrugs. “I mean, you don’t have to, or anything I was just -- wondering, that’s all.”

Zayn blinks. He’s still tired; worn out, feeling as though he’s on the verge of passing out at any given second, but. It’s not like he has any real plans, or anything.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll just -- get my jacket, then we can go, if you want.”

Niall nods, a small smile on his lips as Zayn stands, putting his mug into the dishwasher. “I’ll meet you by the front door,” Niall says as Zayn gives him a small wave, starting up the stairs.

A part of him wants him to stay here, but he ignores it, instead taking his jacket and starting down to meet Niall without a second thought.

 

“Why did you pick this house if it’s an hour away from your doctor?” Zayn asks about ten minutes into the drive.

He had insisted on driving, though Niall had argued and bickered with him, in the end Zayn had won, getting into the driver’s side. Though with him driving it means Niall has control of the radio, which means Zayn is never going to hear a song fully through -- because Niall always, without fail, changes the station before the song ever ends.

“Didn’t want to stay in the city,” Niall answers. “Felt too big, I don’t know. Too loud. Too -- everything, I guess.”

Zayn turns on the windshield wipers, biting down on his lower lip for a few moments. “I get that,” he tells Niall sincerely.

“Just can’t seem to think when I’m in the city,” Niall adds. “Like it’s all too much, or something.”

Zayn swallows. Hard. For a moment he can feel his chest tighten, warm tears stinging the corner of his eyes. He blinks, quickly, trying to rid himself of it as he keeps his eyes focused on the road -- the sound of rain hitting the car as he does.

 

They drive in mostly silence, Niall falling asleep every so often -- his head falling to the side as Zayn goes through the directions.

It’s almost twenty past eight when they get to the building, the car park nearly empty as Zayn cuts the engine. He pauses, for a moment, glancing over to where Niall is still asleep.

Reminds him of some mornings when Niall would sleep in, curled up in his bunk and breathing heavily, Zayn pulling back his curtain carefully. 

“Niall --” Zayn starts, quiet.

Niall makes a soft, sleepy sound, feebly batting Zayn’s hand away. “We’re here,” Zayn continues, smiling a little as Niall wraps his hand around Zayn’s one finger, eyes not even open.

“Nffgggh,” is all Niall says.

“Babe,” Zayn says, nearly laughing now. “C’mon. You can sleep on the way home.”

After a few moments Niall’s eyes open as he smiles, a little, cheeks flushing as he takes his hand off where it’s around Zayn’s finger -- clearing his throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, voice scratchy as he rubs his eyes. 

“It’s fine,” Zayn reassures him, shrugging. “I’ll get your -- crutch,” he says before getting out, opening the back seat. 

Niall follows, leaning against the car as Zayn hands him his crutch, the two starting across the car park. It’s still raining, just a little, the ground wet as he holds the door open for Niall.

He’s got his hands in his pockets, already itching for another smoke as he sits beside Niall in the chairs.

“M’early for once,” Niall comments, grinning.

Zayn rolls his eyes, leaning back his head back. He thinks about how warm Niall’s hands were; closing his eyes. “How long is your appointment?” he asks.

He doesn’t open his eyes, hearing Niall hum beside him. “About forty five minutes? If it goes well,” he replies.

Zayn nods, doesn’t say anything as he folds his hands in his laps. He’s used to waiting; used to do a lot of it back when they were a band, so this isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Mostly he’s tired.

“Niall?” comes a voice Zayn doesn’t know. “We’re ready for you now, if you want to just follow me?”

Zayn looks over toward him, watching as he picks up his crutch towards the lady in the doorway. He turns, glancing at Zayn, and gives him a thumbs up before going down the hallway.

The rest of the waiting room is empty; a line of chairs along the wall as he shifts in his seat, slowly. 

“Are you friends with him?”

Zayn blinks, seeing a woman at the receptionist desk looking at him curiously. _Laura_ , the name plate reads.

“Uh, yeah. Just came to visit him for a bit,” he says.

Laura nods, smiling. “That’s nice. I know he talks about that big, empty house a lot,” she says, laughing a little, as if this is supposed to calm Zayn. It doesn’t.

“How’s he -- doing?” Zayn asks.

It’s the silence that follows Zayn doesn’t trust. Laura clears her throat, looking as though she’s suddenly busied herself with something or other, taking a moment before she finally responds. 

“His spirits are up, which is always good for recovery,” she says, voice quieter now -- more tentative.

Zayn sighs, feeling his stomach clench with worry as he rubs a hand along his face. “But he’s not doing that great, is he,” says Zayn. It’s not a question.

Laura gives him a small, sad smile. “His knee isn’t, no.”

Zayn opens his mouth, not sure what he’s going to say until Laura speaks again. “I need to go -- get some things ready. It was nice talking to you, though,” she tells him, rather dismissively, before walking back into another room. 

He needs a fucking cigarette.

 

He shivers as soon as he steps outside, pulling his hood over his head to shield himself from the rain. It takes a few tries to get the end of the cigarette finally lit, the fucking wind getting in the way as he swears under his breath, frustrated.

He’s mostly pissed because Niall didn’t _tell_ him; just made it sound like he was going through recovery, not a big deal. Except it is a big deal, Zayn thinks to himself as he leans against the wall beside the entrance door.

After a few moments he takes out his phone, opening up a text.

 _did you know about nialls knee?_ he types, sending it.

He doesn’t have to wait long for a response, putting out the end of his cigarette as his phone buzzes. _Thought you’d figure it out eventually_ is Louis’ response.

Zayn swears, running a hand through his hair. _thats fucking great, thanks lou._

He’s angry. He’s pissed and he’s shaking with it, hands wavering as he puts them into the pockets of his coat, stepping back inside -- away from the rain.

 

It’s almost an hour until Niall comes back out, on his crutch and talking with someone who looks to be his doctor -- clipboard tucked under their arm and talking animatedly. Zayn shifts, not saying anything as he waits for Niall to finish.

“How was it?” is the first thing Zayn asks, Niall at his side as they walk back outside.

Niall shrugs, like it’s not some thing Zayn should be worrying the fuck over. “It was fine, yeah. Nothing really new,” he says simply.

Zayn nods, doesn’t push the subject as he puts Niall’s crutch in the back seat, getting into the driver’s side as he wordlessly starts driving back to the house.

 

He doesn’t say much the rest of the day; he spends it mostly sitting in the living room and watching whatever Niall’s got playing.

His mum calls him a few hours later, asking him how he’s doing -- how Portland is.

“It’s good,” Zayn tells her, standing outside in the backyard, as he kicks at a small patch of grass. “Bit wet, though. You’d hate it.”

He hears his mother laugh quietly in response; the sound familiar and warm. “I imagine I would,” she says. “And Niall? How’s he?”

Zayn looks up, spotting him at the kitchen counter, unpacking whatever food he’d gone and picked up on his run into town. “He’s fine,” Zayn answers, though a small part of him wonders how much of that statement is true. “Just brought back some dinner so, I should be going inside.”

“‘Course,” his mother says. “Call me when you can, yeah?”

“Night, mum,” Zayn says.

“Night, babe,” she tells him before hanging up. He puts his phone back into his pocket.

He steps back into the house, smelling pizza as he watches Niall putting the last of the shopping away, the countertop littered with now empty bags.

“Who was that?” Niall asks, closing the fridge.

“My mum,” Zayn answers, leaning against the edge of the island.

Niall nods, but doesn’t say anything else as he reaches for a few plates and some cups, putting one in front of Zayn. 

“How -- is she?” Niall asks, taking a bite of his pizza.

“Good, yeah,” Zayn answers. “Keeping herself busy.”

Niall falls quiet then, doesn’t say anything else as he finishes up his dinner. He puts the dishes into the dishwasher before going upstairs, his footsteps echoing behind him.

Zayn sighs, not particularly hungry anymore. He leaves his food on the counter before moving to sit on the couch -- falling asleep before he’s even there for five minutes.

 

He wakes up to the sound of something falling, then a lot of swearing. He looks to the clock, registering the time -- half past midnight. His head still feels fuzzy from his nap, limbs heavy as he sits up. It’s from upstairs -- Niall’s room, Zayn briefly thinks to himself as he feels himself begin to panic a bit more, moving quickly to get upstairs.

“Niall?” he calls, pounding on his door with his fist impatiently. “Niall -- Ni, fuck, are you okay?”

The door’s open, Zayn figures out a moment later, pushing it a bit more to find Niall in the middle of his room -- a suitcase looking as though it’s fallen from the closet and onto the ground. 

“Are you -- going somewhere?” Zayn asks slowly.

Niall doesn’t laugh; doesn’t move as he rubs his hands along his face. “I can’t -- be here anymore,” he says finally after about a half minute.

Zayn feels his throat tighten; because he knows the feeling. “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

He doesn’t know if he even means the question, if he’d even be willing to get into a car at this hour and drive somewhere -- anywhere, with Niall.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Niall breathes out, voice shaking. Zayn can see now, the tears on Niall's cheeks as he laughs -- the sound watery and tired. “I don’t know. How far is Alaska?”

Zayn’s brows furrow. “I’m not -- sure?” he answers. “Do you want to go to Alaska?”

“Why not?” Niall asks, now looking at him.

He has a point, Zayn thinks to himself. He looks to Niall’s still empty suitcase, then to his knee, then back up to his face. “Can you -- are you sure you can handle it?”

Niall’s face darkens, but Zayn doesn’t take back his question. “It’s fine I just -- hit it, on the closet door but I’m fine,” Niall reassures him.

A silence lapses between them, and a part of Zayn -- a part that sounds an awful like Liam, actually, tells him that this is a bad idea. That nothing’s going to come of it. But the other part of him -- the part that’s gripping him tight, that’s telling him he should go, just this once, and see what comes of it.

And standing there, in the doorway to Niall’s room, Zayn balls his hands up into fists and nods once, slowly.

“Alright,” he starts. Niall doesn’t look away from him. “Get packing then, yeah?”

Niall smiles at him, just a little, as he opens the top of his suitcase. 

Before he walks back to his room Zayn pauses.

“Just -- don’t tell Liam, alright?”

 

By the time the car’s packed and ready to go, it’s nearly four in the morning. And Zayn should be tired, but he seems to buzzing -- can’t stand still as he closes the trunk.

“You get in I’m going to -- have a smoke,” he tells Niall, ignoring his look before he hobbles into the front seat.

The sky is starting to get lighter, sun coming up as he glances down to the directions tucked underneath his arm. He’s probably insane, he thinks to himself briefly as he leans against the wall, exhaling a mouthful of smoke.

“Can’t believe we’re going to fuckin’ Canada,” is the first thing Niall says when Zayn gets into the car, starting it.

Zayn laughs -- quietly, rolling his eyes as he pulls out of the driveway. “You’re the one who picked fucking Alaska, so.”

Niall scoffs, reading over the directions because Zayn’s shit with them, anyway, they both know that.

 

According to the map, it takes about five hours to get to Vancouver, or so Niall informs him as they start off down the highway. 

 

Despite his saying he would stay up for the drive Niall’s asleep within the first half hour. Zayn’s own eyes feel a little heavy as he runs a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’d driven for more than an hour, feeling the steady hum of the car beneath his feet. The road is nearly empty save for a few cars passing every so often. It’s nice, Zayn decides then, even though he’s tired and hungry -- he doesn’t mind it.

He remembers one year when the five of them had decided to take a road trip. Well, ‘road trip’ was a very loose term, really. Mostly it had been Liam driving, Zayn trying to figure out the directions, the rest of them yelling from the back seat as they’d tried to find some place for all of them to stay the night between shows. Originally they’d wanted to go camping, but had decided against it when they’d found out how cold it was outside.

So they’d spent the night in some hotel Zayn can’t remember the name of anymore, watching shitty television and eating food until around three in the morning when they’d all passed out on the two beds in the room.

But it’s different now, with Niall beside him -- head against the back of the seat as he’s sleeping, quietly. It’s different but Zayn’s not complaining, leaving the radio off and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

 

By the time they actually reach Vancouver it’s nearing ten in the morning and Niall's wide awake in his seat as they cross the border.

“Remember last time we were here?” he asks, all energy as Zayn glances over at him.

“Not really,” Zayn admits. Niall rolls his eyes as they pull up in front of a hotel.

He’s near exhausted as he gets Niall’s crutch out, taking their bags and checking in while Niall wanders the lobby, all wide eyes and exclamations of “hey, look at this!” or “Zayn come here!” and it’s so reminiscent of a few years ago half the time Zayn needs to look twice to remember where they are, now.

Their room is on the fourth floor. Niall hits the lift button as he looks through a brochure he’d picked up somewhere. 

“I’m fucking hungry,” he says, flipping the page.

“We should get food,” Zayn says.

Niall smirks, nudging Zayn’s side with his elbow lightly. “There’s a beach close by, we could walk along there maybe? If you want,” he suggests. “And, shit, there’s this place -- Granville Island? They brew their own beer there,” Niall adds, eyes nearly pleading when he looks up at Zayn.

Zayn smiles, shaking his head, because he knows where they’re going tonight, then. “You don’t have to ask more than once,” he teases, stepping out of the lift, Niall not too far behind him.

“Gonna be fucking great,” Niall says, and Zayn wants to agree, but the lingering uncertainty in his chest tells him otherwise.

 

They go Granville Island first, because Niall “really needs a fucking pint”, though it’s not like Zayn was set any sort of schedule. 

It’s about a twenty minute drive from their hotel. Niall reads off the brochure and Zayn listens to him -- humming occasionally, his phone buzzing from the cup holder between them.

“Can you -- check who that was?” Zayn asks, swallowing.

Niall nods, picking up his phone gingerly. “It’s Louis,” he says after a moment. “And Liam.”

“Shit,” Zayn breathes out, laughing quietly. He continues driving until he finds a side street they can park on.

“Want me to say anything?” Niall asks.

“No it’s -- fine. I’ll just text them later,” Zayn says, taking his phone carefully as he gets out of the front seat.

Niall doesn’t seem convinced, but doesn’t say anything else as they start up towards the front entrance. 

Liam’s and Louis’ texts say basically the same thing, asking where the fuck Zayn is, how the fuck Niall is and if he’s ever going to fucking reply to them. 

_a lot of fucking going on here_ Zayn sends their group chat, locking his phone as soon as Niall starts in on the booths. It’s not until he smells the food that Zayn realises how hungry is, buying himself an americano while Niall chats with a bunch of the vendors.

He’s always been like that, Zayn thinks to himself as he stirs in a bit of milk to help fight the bitterness of the espresso and a bit of honey to help the scratching that’s started in the back of his throat. 

Niall has this way of making people feel like they’ve been friends for years, Harry would say, including people and talking to them -- one arm crossed over his chest as he listens to whatever it is the person is talking about, always with this look of concentration.

Zayn walks along the row of vendors, cup warm in his hand as he glances at a few of things, trying to see if his sisters might like anything. He trails his fingertips along a bunch of necklaces, but nothing really stands out to him.

“There’s an entire booth --” Niall starts, coming up to him. Zayn turns as he continues talking. He's wearing sunglasses now. “For cheese. Can you believe it?”

“Think I can, yeah,” Zayn says.

“What are you looking for?” Niall asks, immediately curious.

Zayn shrugs, his drink nearly finished. He feels a little more alert, if anything, like everything is less dulled around him -- more sharp, easier to focus. 

“Dunno,” says Zayn. “Something for my sisters, maybe.”

Niall reaches out, brushing Zayn’s elbow in one careful, slow, sweep. His hand is warm, Zayn registers from the brief touch. “Did you find anything?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’ll look somewhere else, maybe,” he says.

Niall doesn’t touch him again, and for a moment Zayn finds himself wishing he would, even if it is for a second. 

“The guy I talked to said there’s some really good poutine down there,” Niall says, motioning with his hand. 

“Let's go, then,” Zayn says, Niall grinning as they start off toward the booth.

 

They get poutine, the grease and gravy welcome to Zayn's hungry stomach. Niall's still got that bright look to his face, walking through the booths with that always present curiosity -- pointing and tugging on Zayn's sleeve every few moments. 

He's got a bit of gravy on the side of his mouth but doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in everything. Zayn doesn't tell him, throwing out his now empty container into the nearest rubbish bin. It's starting to get dark, the air cooler from the water as he looks over some more booths. 

She loved soaps; the different smells and textures, always had an obnoxious collection of them in her room, he remembers. For a moment he wonders if it's still there, or if his mother threw them out -- if the smell reminded his mum of her too much, like Zayn thinks it would. 

He looks over the assortment of different soaps -- there's lavender, and mint, all handmade, he reads briefly. He smiles at the woman at the booth before turning, spotting Niall a few feet down, looking at something Zayn doesn't recognise. 

"Ready to go?" Niall asks as Zayn approaches him. 

"We can stay for a bit," says Zayn, shrugging. "I mean -- if you want."

"M'alright to go," Niall says after a moment. After a moment he frowns. "Forgot how sick poutine makes me feel," he adds. 

Zayn grins, shaking his head as they start down an unfamiliar street. Niall's still got his crutch, staying beside Zayn as they go. It's nice, Zayn decides, the way the city has seemingly settled, the water just visible from where they're walking. 

"Already better than Portland," Zayn says. 

Niall looks at him, confused. "Why'd you reckon that?"

"S'not raining," Zayn says, nearly laughing at the face makes Niall makes in response. 

"Probably right there," Niall says, but he's smiling too. 

They go down to the beach, Zayn's legs needing the walk after driving that car for so long. The sand is still warm from the sun that's nearly set now. Niall buys them ice cream; mint chocolate chip for Zayn, and strawberry chocolate mix for himself. 

Feeling a little daring, he puts his toes in the water -- it laps up against his skin and Zayn stands there for a while, unmoving. Behind him Niall's skipping rocks, sitting on an old log. Zayn sucks in a deep breath. 

"Like it, being out," Niall says after a while. 

Zayn takes a step back from the water, his now wet toes collecting sand under his skin. He looks at Niall -- lets his eyes linger on the patches of red skin along Niall's face, his few freckles noticeable even in the dim evening sun. 

"Yeah?" Zayn asks, taking a step toward him, slowly. 

"Yeah," Niall confirms. "Feels better, I guess, dunno."

"No, I get it," Zayn says. 

The walk back to the car is short, both of them seemingly too tired to talk as they go back up to their hotel room. Zayn absently checks his phone once they get into the room, sitting on the edge of his bed and thumbing through his messages. 

"Gonna take a shower," Niall tells him before he goes into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Zayn's eyes are heavy as he turns on the television. He falls asleep to the sound of the water running and tinny voices in the background. 

 

When he wakes up, Niall's asleep, body curled up on the bed beside him. Zayn shifts -- trying to find a clock, or his phone. He finds the first, red numbers bright and telling him it's nearly seven in the morning, but with all his fucked jet lag he doesn't even know what time it _should_ be for himself anymore. 

He gets up slowly, careful not to wake Niall as he changes into some other clothes -- the ones he wore yesterday smell like car and poutine. He puts on a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt. 

 

The hotel lobby is mostly empty, and not particularly wanting hotel food, Zayn opts out for trying to find somewhere else to eat, walking down the street. 

He comes across a small coffee shop, ordering himself another americano and a scone. The girl at the counter hands them over to him with a smile. He puts the same milk and honey into his drink, picking at his pastry and he goes to sit at one of the tables near the window. 

Without giving it a second thought, he dials a number on his phone. He doesn't have to wait long for it to pick up, and after just three rings that same, familiar voice comes through. 

"Hello?"

"Harry?" Zayn asks. 

"Zayn?" Harry asks in response, confused. "Are you ok?"

"I'm in Canada," is the first thing Zayn can think to say. 

A pause, the sounds of hushed voices in the background until it goes quiet again. "No shit, really?" Harry asks. 

"Yeah," Zayn says. He put too much milk in his americano. "Vancouver, right now."

"What, is this the Zayn Malik tour of Canada?" asks Harry, because first and foremost, he's an idiot. 

Zayn rolls his eyes, continuing to pick at his scone. "Shut up," he mutters. 

"Is Niall with you then?" Harry asks. "Liam said you'd gone to see him, or something. Which reminds me -- thanks for telling me, by the way."

"You're away, just figured you were busy," Zayn says. 

Harry sighs. "Not that hard to call me," he says. 

"I'll remember that next time," Zayn promises. Harry hums in response, clearly alright with this answer. 

"So how is it? How's Niall doing?" Harry asks conversationally. 

"Fine, I guess," Zayn responds. 

"'You _guess_ ,'" Harry repeats, unimpressed. 

Zayn closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Beside him an older man is sat doing his crossword, brows furrowed in concentration. 

"You probably know more than I do," Zayn says, starting to feel the beginnings of a headache in the front of his head. "He isn't telling me much."

Harry's silence that follows is heavy, saying more than Zayn wants to deal with as he rubs a hand along his face, tired. "Just -- give him time," he says finally, but Zayn knows what he really wants to say. 

_You should've talked to him_ , or maybe, _you needed him_. Possibly something else like, _he wanted to be there for you so fucking bad_. 

"Time, sure," Zayn echoes, yawning. "Should go, though. Gotta drive ten hours or summat today."

"Fuck," Harry breathes, laughing quietly. "Glad it isn't me."

Zayn snorts. "Cheers, Haz."

"Call me if you need anything, okay?"

Zayn swallows but finds himself smiling a little as he folds the napkin in front of him. "I will," he says. "Bye, Harry."

"Bye, Zayn," he says before hanging up. 

He stays there for a little while longer, more people joining the queue to get their drinks before work -- half of them are on their phones. Zayn runs a hand through his hair. He gets up slowly until he hears a voice to his left. 

"Capital of Alaska," the older man is reading, brows still furrowed. 

Zayn nearly laughs, looking over towards the man. "Anchorage," he tells him, shaking his head. 

 

It's only an hour after Zayn gets back that they're ready to go, everything in the car as he gets into the front seat. 

"I'm driving," Niall insisted. He was very adamant despite Zayn's arguing. 

In the end Zayn had relented, which was probably for the better because he's fucking exhausted. He doesn't feel it until they've been driving for about half an hour, his eyes heavy as he rubs at them. 

Niall's humming along with the radio, sunglasses on his face and Zayn's sure he's never looked more beautiful, maybe, than in this moment. They're somewhere on the highway when he takes a picture with his phone, Niall obliviously singing along -- sun behind him and his smile big and bright, as always. Just how Zayn wants to remember him, just like this. 

 

Eventually Zayn dozes off, after sending the picture of Niall to Liam and Louis with the caption: _somewhere in canada, maybe_ because they were bound to catch on to their little road trip eventually. Well that, and Harry has a huge fucking mouth so, it's a little inevitable at this point. 

He sleeps on and off for most of the drive; waking up every few hours whenever Niall stops for coffee, always leaving one for Zayn in the cup holder beside his. And it's strange, how normal it feels, almost like they could've had this for so long but never tried to have it -- always holding back, in some way. 

Or, Zayn supposes, it was him who's always held back. Then again, he thinks, tracing along the tattoos of his arm silently, he doesn't even know how Niall feels. But every once in a while, when Niall thinks he's sleeping, Zayn can feel the pad of his fingertips brush along the back of his hand -- quick and fleeting, but very real, and very there. 

And in those moments, on the verge of sleep with the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue, Zayn knows it's real. 

And maybe, that's what he's scared of most. 

 

Because of all their stops they end up at Prince George at around one in the morning, pulling into a hotel and all Zayn wants to do is sleep. 

"Thanks for driving, Ni," he says when they're in the lift. 

Niall buries his head into Zayn's shoulder, all sleepy and warm as Zayn tugs him closer. "M'fucking tired," he says, speech slow. 

Zayn nods, ruffling a bit of his hair before unlocking the door to their room. "I'll drive tomorrow, yeah?" he offers. Niall nods in agreement. 

It's a small room, nothing really to it. He takes the bed nearest the door, away from the window. Niall yawns into the back of his hand. 

He hears a quiet mumbled goodnight into the darkness of their room and he wonders, briefly, before he drifts off, what it would be like to hear a good morning -- with Niall's voice right beside him instead of across the room. 

 

Prince George, as it turns out, isn't terribly exciting. Well not for Zayn, anyway, who isn't particularly taken with the idea of climbing a mountain or jumping off one. Neither is Niall, claiming his crutch gets a bit in the way of that, so they both settle on some lunch, ice cream, and a small walk through the town. 

Niall brings his camera with, taking a few shots here and there, all focused and serious the moment he gets behind the lens. 

After that they gather their things and start out on the road for a few hours of driving before they need to stop to sleep. Zayn's behind the wheel this time, and even though Niall refuses to say it out loud, he knows it's because his knee is acting up. Or getting worse, Zayn really isn't sure which of the two, really. But he doesn't ask, just watches as Niall puts some ice to it, continually flipping through the radio stations until he finally settles on something he wants to listen to. 

 

"Do you miss it?"

They're on a stretch of nearly empty highway, mountains on either side of them. Zayn glances to Niall, briefly. "Miss what?" he asks, gripping the steering wheel. 

"The band, I guess. All of it," Niall clarifies, still looking out his window. 

Zayn pauses a moment, considering. They haven't really talked about it, the band, he thinks to himself as he swallows, shrugging. "Sometimes, yeah," Zayn says slowly. 

Niall's a bit unreadable now, the way he gets when he's tired and frustrated -- all out of sorts and too much in his head, he used to tell Zayn. "Wish I could think like you sometimes," Niall admitted to him one night. "I can hardly keep all my thoughts straight in my head."

Zayn wonders whether he's better at that now. "I miss like -- all of us together, you know?"

Niall nods, once, his forehead pressed against the glass of the window. "We were always such a fucking mess together," he says, laughing quietly. "But it was good, wasn't it?"

"Always was," says Zayn, voice quiet. 

 

They get through most of the ten hour drive, stopping off for dinner at some place just off a highway exit. It's fine, the fries a bit too greasy for Zayn's liking, but other than that he can't really complain.

According to their waitress, (who was, as it turns out, a _very_ big One Direction fan back in the day) there's a hotel in town. 

"Where are we going?" Niall asks when Zayn pulls into the car park of a small complex of stores. 

"C'mon," Zayn tells him, getting out. "I need a fucking drink."

That's all the explanation Niall needs. 

 

He's halfway through his fourth beer when he finds it. It's nearly half eleven at night and Niall's in the shower -- Zayn's hair is still wet from his own he'd taken when they had first gotten to the room. 

He takes out the map and his phone charger from his bag and the picture falls on the floor. For a brief moment Zayn wants to put it back into his bag, pretend it isn’t there, but he can't. 

And so, with his hazy head and heart pounding, he picks it up. It's from a few years ago, when she graduated school. He's got her on his back and she's laughing, loudly, the kind that kept ringing in Zayn's ears. He remembers how tightly she'd held onto him, nearly screaming in his ear when he'd pretended to drop her. 

Immediately warm tears sting his eyes and Zayn can feel the familiar lump returning to his throat as he tries to breathe -- but all that does is make his head spin more. His free hand grips the blanket on the bed. 

He doesn't realise Niall is back in the room until he's beside Zayn -- all warm and so, _so_ familiar. 

"Zayn?" Niall asks, voice low. He smells like his shower, and the beers he'd had before. "Are you alright?" he asks after another moment, hesitating. 

Zayn laughs, because he doesn't want to cry, because he can already feel the tears down his cheeks, warm and wet. He shakes his head. 

“Are you sad, Zayn,” Niall asks slowly, words slurring together just a little as he runs a tentative fingertip over the back of Zayn's hand. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, feeling himself choke up a bit. He hates himself for it. “I’m really fucking sad, Ni,” he admits.

When he finally looks up at Niall he's quiet, eyes wide and unsure of what to do. He looks down at the picture in Zayn's hand before tilting his chin up, just a little, as he leans in. 

Niall kisses him slowly, gently, his lips warm and soft and it's enough to make Zayn -- for just a moment -- nearly forget what he was upset over. Zayn kisses him back, because it helps make his thoughts quieter and because Niall is so close that Zayn can't help but touch him. 

But then Niall is pulling back and he stares at Zayn for a few moments. "This okay?" he asks. 

Zayn nods. "Yeah, Ni," he breathes out. "It's -- fuck, it's more than okay."

Neither of them say anything else as Niall leans in again, lips parted and warm, pressing against Zayn's. This is the first time they've kissed, though in the past there's been moments where Zayn would find himself wondering, if Niall wanted it as much as he wanted it. The question's always been left unanswered. 

They don't do much else; both of them kissing, even after Niall turns out the lights -- Zayn can feel nothing but the brush of Niall's lips against his, gentle and making his heart race in his chest. 

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning they fall asleep, Niall pressed up against Zayn's side and it's the first time in a long time he's fallen asleep without that tight, paralyzing feeling of loneliness in his chest. He falls asleep to Niall's face buried into his neck, breath warm, coming out as small puffs against his skin. 

 

They wake up a little after eight, Zayn's alarm going off on the bedside table. He opens his eyes, wincing at the light coming through the window. 

"Early," Niall mutters, curling closer to Zayn. 

"C'mon," Zayn says, nudging his side. "Got a long drive, don't we?"

Niall shakes his head, pulling the pillow over his face as Zayn gets up. He grabs the jumper from the ground and shrugs into it.

Eventually, when all their things are almost packed, Niall wakes up. He moves slow, eyes puffy as he rubs at them. He's never been one for talking in the morning, something Zayn can say he relates to. 

They eat breakfast quick, some slightly stale muffins left in the breakfast line along with some rather weak coffee. Zayn winces as he forces himself to drink it. 

"Don't know if that was coffee," Niall mutters, "fucking vile, whatever it was."

Zayn smirks, nodding in agreement as he puts their bags into the back of the car. It's cloudy today, looking like rain as he starts driving -- his head pounding and in rather desperate need of a _good_ cup of coffee. 

But he keeps driving, doesn't think too much on it, with his hands on the steering wheel and Niall dozing off beside him. 

 

They stop off for lunch, and dinner, nothing much to see where they'd picked up a quick meal. According to the map they've still got a little ways to go, but Zayn's suddenly not tired, even when he looks at the time. 

"Wanna pull off somewhere? Sleep a bit?" Niall suggests, glancing up at Zayn from his phone. 

"Gonna keep driving, I think," Zayn replies after a moment. "If that's okay?"

Niall shrugs. "Up to you," he says, shifting a bit in his seat. 

It's nearly midnight, but Zayn's not near ready for sleep. Not now at least, anyway. So he keeps driving. 

 

It helps clear his head, if a little, that he isn't in some bed -- laying on his back and hearing nothing but Niall's slow and steady breathing. Instead, here, there's the continual humming of the car -- the lights bright in front of him, and even though it's almost three in the morning it's almost cleansing, being here, he thinks to himself. 

The radio is on, quiet and keeping his thoughts at bay, for a while. Niall's been asleep since a little past midnight, his arm draped over the dashboard. 

"Remember when we tried to stay awake, that one night -- during tour?" Zayn asks Niall, not expecting any sort of response. "You barely lasted until three in the morning till you practically passed out on my bed," he reminisces, laughing a little.

Niall had insisted he and Zayn watch Game of Thrones, mostly to see what him and Liam liked so much about it. Though, naturally, Niall was mostly confused watching it -- sitting there with this sort of permanent look of confusion on his face. 

"You hated that show," Zayn says, wondering what Niall would say if he was awake, in his defence. 

He hesitates, unsure, before reaching out where Niall's hand is on the console, still fast asleep. 

For a moment Zayn brushes the back of Niall's hand, not even sure why as it settles something in him. He moves slowly, about to take it back when Niall shifts. He doesn't wake as he wraps his hand around Zayn's, gripping it lightly in his own. 

Zayn takes in a sharp breath, but doesn't move his hand where it's tangled in Niall's. 

Sometime as the sun starts to rise, just as Niall starts to stir awake Zayn lets go. Both hands are on the steering wheel by the time Niall slowly blinks awake. 

 

They stop eventually because Zayn needs to sleep, his entire body feeling heavy as they walk to the hotel room. He doesn't say much, just falls onto a bed and lets his eyes fall closed without a second thought. 

He wakes up to the sound of Niall's voice outside, on the balcony. Zayn stays there, hands folded on his chest as he swallows, trying to listen. 

"I _know_ , Lou," Niall's saying, sounding slightly irritated. "But we -- kissed, doesn't that mean anything?"

Immediately Zayn tightens, taking in a sharp breath. "Well, I don't know," Niall continues. Zayn can see him pacing, his shadow moving along the curtain. "It kind of feels like he wants it too," Niall says, pausing. "Like he wants _us_ ," he clarifies a moment later. 

Zayn shuts his eyes, tight, no part of him relaxed as he shakes his head. Half of him wants to stand up and tell Niall that no, that's not how this fucking _works_ but he doesn't do that, instead turning over onto his side as he hears the door open again.

"No, he's still asleep," Niall says, his voice low. "I'll talk to you later, yeah? Okay -- shut up. Bye, Louis," he finishes before hanging up, leaving Zayn to wonder what the hell he's going to do now. 

 

Niall drives next, and Zayn can say he’s a little more than relieved -- slumping in the passengers seat as soon as they start off down the highway. 

He wants to say something, is the thing, but he just -- doesn’t know how, or if he even should. A part of him wants to call Harry, or Louis, but he knows that won’t really get him anywhere. So instead he closes his eyes, listening to Niall’s humming along to the song on the radio and tells himself that they’re gonna be fine. 

 

Zayn’s not sure he’s ever been to Alaska. Everything's a bit unfamiliar as he wakes up to Niall still driving, his voice talking as Zayn blearily tries to blink awake.

 

They get to the cabin rental a little after two in the afternoon, what with it being about an hour from the city, according to the man they’d asked when they’d gone to get petrol. But now they’re here, Zayn getting their bags as Niall goes to unlock the door.

It’s small -- which is expected, the walls covered with wood panels and a fireplace in one corner, the kitchen on another end and a hallway leading to what Zayn assumes to be the bedrooms as he puts his bags down by his feet. Niall’s already inside, his footsteps echoing along the floor as Zayn rubs a hand along his face. He needs to sleep for more than five hours at a time, he thinks to himself. He also needs a cup of coffee.

The sun’s coming through the windows, bright and relentless as he walks into one of the bedrooms. He kicks the door open and he puts his bags onto the bed.

Niall’s in the next room, folding one of his shirts. 

“You alright?” Niall asks, glancing over at him.

Zayn pauses, like he’s somehow been found out, standing there. “Fine, yeah. Need some coffee and something to eat, I think,” he says after a moment. 

Niall stares at him, blinking before he nods. “There’s a coffee maker in the kitchen -- isn’t there? The shopping is still in the car,” he suggests.

“I’ll go grab the bags,” Zayn tells him, rubbing the back of his neck.

Niall opens his mouth, as if he wants to say something -- but he must think better of it as Zayn swallows, giving him one last look before stepping out and getting the grocery bags from the car.

 

The rest of the night is quiet, Niall making some dinner and Zayn falling asleep on the couch for a few hours. 

Zayn goes on his computer while Niall sits, watching television and drinking a beer. The sky is dark -- the air warm with a small breeze coming through the windows.

He’s looking through some photos his mum posted when his phone buzzes beside him, and checking the name he takes his cigarettes -- slipping out the door and onto the small deck in front of the cabin, letting the door fall shut behind him.

“Hello?” he answers, cradling his phone as he tries to light his cigarette.

“So you didn’t get lost in Canada, then,” comes Louis’ unimpressed response.

Zayn sighs, finally getting the end of his cigarette to light. “We had a map, so that helped,” he says.

“Don’t be a dick,” Louis says, serious.

The television is still on, playing something Zayn doesn’t recognise. “What do you want,” he finally settles on asking. 

He can tell Louis is angry, and Zayn doesn’t blame him. “I’m a little pissed you didn't tell me you decided to drive across the fucking United States to fucking _Alaska_ ,” Louis starts, tone sharp. Zayn feels his jaw tighten, inhaling. “And I’m a little pissed you haven’t replied to any of my texts except with pictures of Niall and random gas stations,” he finishes.

“Anything else?” Zayn asks, flicking the end of his cigarette.

“You called Harry,” Louis says. “And you didn’t call me? That never happens, Zayn.”

“Did you look over my phone bill this month?” Zayn asks.

“Anyway,” Louis says. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or do I have to guess?”

“You do like guessing games,” Zayn replies.

There’s no response, and instead Zayn’s left gripping his phone. “Niall called you, didn’t he?” Zayn asks finally.

Louis sighs. “He did, yeah,” he says.

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose, his head starting to pound. He needs to sleep; the coffee he’d made before dinner isn’t doing the job anymore.

“Gonna tell me what he said?”

He’s not sure if Louis is going to tell him, unsure of what to expect. “You kissed him?” Louis asks, his voice quieter -- less angry.

“He kissed me, actually, if you want to be more specific,” Zayn clarifies.

“ _Zayn_ ,” Louis says.

Zayn steps on the end of his cigarette, hearing it hiss beneath the weight of his heel. “Yes, we kissed. Anything else?” he asks.

“Do you -- want anything to happen?”

A car drives past, the lights dimming out down the empty road as Zayn watches it for a few moments. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “Does he want anything to happen?”

“Shit, Zayn, are you serious?” Louis breathes out. “You need to talk to him.”

“And say what, exactly?” Zayn snaps.

This isn’t the first time he’s snapped at Louis, but it’s been a while, he thinks to himself in the silence that follows. “I can’t tell you what to say,” Louis says, sounding a little hurt. “That’s up to you.”

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, “Sorry, sorry, I’m -- fuck, I don’t know.”

“Well, lucky for you you’re in that tiny fucking cabin with him for the next, what, week or so? So you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him,” Louis says.

Zayn smiles, a little, his shoulder sagging a little. “Thanks for calling, Lou,” he tells him sincerely.

“Call me later this week, alright? Or sooner, if you need anything like ice fishing tips, or whatever,” he says.

Zayn snorts. “Bye, Lou,” he says.

“You know I care about you, right? I care about both of you,” Louis says.

“I know,” Zayn says slowly, feeling a small lump in his throat. “I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Alright,” Louis says. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Zayn says before hanging up, putting his phone back into his pocket and stepping inside.

He puts his dishes and mug into the sink, making a note to wash them tomorrow as he rubs his hands together. When he reaches the doorway to the living room he pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“Going to bed, I think,” Zayn says.

Niall nods, his brows furrowed. Zayn turns, about to take a step until --

“Hey, Zayn?”

He looks back, seeing Niall still on the couch. “Yeah?” he asks.

Niall pauses, looking at where his hands are folded in his lap. “It's nothing just --" Niall stops himself, still looking at him. "Sleep well,” he says.

“Thanks, Ni,” Zayn says before going to his room, closing the door and crawling into his bed and letting the sound of the television drown out his thoughts.

 

Niall’s gone the next morning, a note taped to the toaster telling Zayn he’s out fishing. The car’s gone from the driveway, which means it’s just Zayn here -- the idea both uncomfortable and relieving to him at once.

He makes breakfast -- a bagel and some coffee -- and sits at the small table near the window. It’s cloudy and for a while he lazes about, computer open and flipping through channels on the television aimlessly. 

He’s bored. His phone on his chest and he’s not looking at anything really important. He debates texting Liam or Louis briefly before putting it back down, grabbing his jacket as he walks out the door.

 

There’s a trail near the cabin, the only sound around of him walking. He puts his hands into his pockets and trudges ahead.

Growing up there was a trail behind his house in Bradford, though it didn’t really lead anywhere. He remembers walking along it whenever he couldn’t sleep. His mother used to tell him that walking when he couldn’t sleep wouldn’t actually _help_ him sleep, but going out in the early hours of the morning was nice. Better than the alternative.

It’s different now, because he isn’t home -- and his mother isn’t here. It’s different because so much has changed, that Zayn isn’t even sure he would recognize the path behind his old house if he even went there. 

She went out with him once, when she’d heard him walking around to find his cigarettes. 

It was late and it was cold, but she still came; linked her arm with his and started walking through the February night with him -- her voice quiet in the stillness of the late hour.

“Can’t sleep?” she’d asked in the soft, trying not to sound overly concerned voice.

“Not really,” Zayn would say, hearing her laugh quietly in response.

“Did you even try?” she asked, poking his side.

Zayn would squirm at the touch, trying to step away as she shook her head. “Just -- stop thinking for a bit, will you? Can hear you from here,” she told him.

“You can’t hear a thing,” Zayn would tell her. She would always shake her head but he was left wondering if maybe, possibly, she could hear his thoughts in the silence of the woods.

 

The car’s back when Zayn walks up the driveway to the cabin. It's nearly dinner time as he steps inside to see Niall in the kitchen.

“Decided to come back?” Zayn teases, putting his coat on the coat rack beside the door.

“Hilarious,” Niall deadpans. “I caught you some dinner, so I wouldn’t say much if I were you.”

“What, did you actually catch something?” Zayn asks, taking a step into the kitchen.

“Would look that way,” Niall says, but he’s smiling a little. 

“How -- was it?” 

Niall pauses his mixing something in a bowl. His computer is on the table and he's watching some show as Zayn yawns into the back of his hand.

“It was good, yeah. Quiet,” Niall responds. “Where were you?”

“Just went for a walk,” Zayn says, feeling weirdly stiff. “Gonna sleep for a bit, I think,” he adds, tapping a finger on the counter.

Niall nods, not saying anything else as Zayn takes a step back -- going to sit on the couch, hearing Niall mumble to himself as he lets his eyes close.

 

He wakes up a few hours later, the sky dark and a plate in front of him on the small coffee table. He’d left the television on, playing some property show.

Zayn forces himself to sit up slowly. He’s sore; his entire body aching as he rubs his face for a few moments -- trying to wake himself up.

The first thing he does is make coffee, the second is eat a bit of his dinner -- fish and some roasted potatoes, looking rather similar to the meal Gordon Ramsey had been cooking when Zayn had glanced to the computer before going to sleep.

 

He finishes eating his dinner, washing his dishes and turning off the lights in the kitchen, no sign of Niall until he walks into the small hallway. Only then does he hear it, the sound of a guitar.

It’s not hard to find where it’s coming from, pushing open Niall’s door as Zayn sees him on his bed -- strumming the guitar in his lap. 

For a while Niall doesn’t seem to notice Zayn, too busy singing words quietly to himself -- his fingers moving along the strings in a way Zayn knows all too well, has seen it many nights before. And that’s what Zayn remembers most about tour -- not the talks with Louis, or the many cups of tea with Liam, or watching movies with Harry -- it was Niall.

Niall, who would sit up with him in the mornings because he knew Zayn hated sitting up alone most nights. Niall, who would learn his favourite songs and try to play them -- complaining that Drake is far too hard to learn on guitar, but Zayn always knew he was joking. Niall, who would wear his sweaters because he liked that Zayn’s were “so big and kept him warm.” 

One night, during one of their tours when they were driving to Seattle, Niall let Zayn draw him. Possibly because it was three in the morning and they’d smoked two bowls between the two of them, but Zayn likes to think that Niall just wanted Zayn to draw him.

“Make me look good, will yah?” Niall asked, face pressed into Zayn’s shoulders; all warm, familiar heat where he pressed into Zayn’s back.

“I will do my best but I can’t make any promises,” Zayn teased, laughing when Niall had made a sound in protest. “Don’t wake up Harry -- he’ll kill you,” Zayn added.

Niall had frowned, leaning over to look where Zayn had started sketching. “My chin doesn’t look like that,” is all he had said, grinning into the back of his hand.

He still has that sketch, in his house -- in the piles of pages, and he makes a mental note to find it again when he’s home.

“Zayn?” Niall’s voice takes him out of his head, eyes wide where he’s looking at him from his bed. “You alright?”

Zayn blinks, nodding as he takes in a deep breath. “Fine, yeah. Just wanted to say thanks for the dinner,” he says slowly.

Niall smiles, a little, a small upturn of his mouth. “It wasn’t anything,” he says with a small shrug.

“I’m going to have a smoke then sleep, I think,” Zayn adds after a moment.

“Sure, ‘course,” Niall says. “Night, then.”

“Night,” Zayn says before taking his jacket and cigarettes from where they’re hanging beside the door as he steps outside again.

Liam’s texted a few times throughout the day, Harry sending him a SnapChat as Zayn thumbs through his messages. He’s nearly finished his smoke when he gets one from his mum, his chest tightening as he reads it over.

 _Gonna be a long day tomorrow. Wish you were here._ with a heart as he swallows, locking the screen and putting it back into his pocket.

 

And when Zayn’s in bed, the lights off and almost on the verge of sleep -- he checks his calendar, knowing exactly what will be there when he does. 

March 2nd -- _Doniya’s Birthday_ is what it says as he feels his throat tighten, closing his eyes and forcing himself to sleep.

 

He doesn’t sleep well -- wakes up every few hours, laying in bed and trying to decide if he should get up or not. In the end he decides on staying there, at least until it’s a little past nine in the morning.

Niall gets up a little before ten, his footsteps going into the bathroom -- soon followed by the sound of the shower running as Zayn closes his eyes for a few moments.

He’s halfway through making some eggs when Niall comes in, hair still a bit wet as he sits at one of the stools by the bar near the stove. They’re both quiet for a few minutes as Zayn hands him a plate for some breakfast and he puts toast and eggs onto it.

He doesn’t feel like talking; his throat feels tight, his head feels heavy and he’s not even sure what he would say, really, because what is there to say? Niall doesn’t question him, instead takes the salt and pepper from in front of him of him as Zayn pours himself some coffee. 

After picking at his food for a few minutes, surprisingly not that hungry, he steps outside for a smoke. It’s raining today; puddles everywhere along the road as he stands under the edge of the roof to keep dry -- cupping his hand over the end of the cigarette to make sure it lights.

It’s hard to explain, her birthday, never really something Zayn found he could put into words. This is the second one without her, but it somehow feels like it’s been a decade -- each day moving slower than the last.

He inhales, slowly, and tries to ignore the pounding in his head as he exhales the smoke. He should eat, maybe, but he can’t bring himself to. Not yet, anyway.

By the time his cigarette is done he’s shivering slightly as he steps into the cabin -- thankful to see the fireplace already going as he moves to sit in front of it. He coughs into his fist, leaning against the back of the couch as he takes a blanket from the other end of it, wrapping it around himself.

He’s so fucking tired. He’s been sleeping for what feels like days and he still can’t over how _tired_ he is, like a constant fucking weight on his chest, making it seem like some days he can’t even breathe. 

Niall’s doing dishes in the kitchen, humming to himself as Zayn tips his head back. He should call his mum at some point, she'll no doubt want to hear from him. He rubs his hands together to try and get at least some feeling back into the ends of his fingers.

He doesn’t want to check his phone, mostly because he knows there will be texts from people that will make his eyes water -- and make his heart ache and it’s too much, right now. So instead he picks up the remote and turns on the television, to something he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care all that much about knowing.

It’s still the home and gardens network -- a show about people trying to sell a house, or something, he’s not really sure. All he knows is that it’s a distraction, which is what he really fucking needs right now.

If he was home they would’ve spent the day together -- even though she hated big birthday celebrations, would always shy away from that sort of thing, which Zayn understood -- it was one way they were similar, really.

And his mum would cook, and bake, and fill the entire house with far too much food for all of them. They’d get her presents and sit around while she opened them, always so excited and wide eyed -- smiling brightly and thanking everyone for each thing she received. That was the thing about his sister though, was that she was such a bright presence in the room -- no one could ever miss her, his mother would always say.

Zayn swallows, trying to breathe evenly as he feels his hands gripping the blanket around himself rather firmly. His mug of coffee is still in front of him, probably cold now as Zayn sighs, shaking his head.

Niall comes and sits beside him a little while later, not saying anything, really, as he crosses his arms over his chest -- hooking his hands underneath his armpits in his usual, Niall way. Zayn always thought it was how Niall kept himself together so well, sitting like that -- making sure every part of him is in order. 

Zayn wishes he could do that, now, sitting here, but there’s too many parts of him he wouldn’t know where to start putting them all back.

“We can -- watch something else, if you want,” Zayn suggests after a moment. His mouth is dry, he thinks to himself as he waits for Niall to say something.

“No, no, this is good,” Niall reassures him, nodding. Zayn doesn’t push it.

He feels like crying, maybe, sitting there -- with the rain on the window and bits of snow still on the ground, chunks of it white and prominent -- even from where he’s sitting on the couch. But Zayn doesn’t let himself cry, instead swallows the lump in his throat as he runs a hand through his hair.

He’s _fine_. He just needs to keep telling himself that he’s fine and he will be, that’s all there is to it.

 

After a while he dozes off, waking up to the television still on and Niall on his computer at the small table near the kitchen. He’s got his glasses on. Zayn’s always liked Niall in glasses. “I like those glasses on you,” he tells him, though he isn’t sure why he felt the need to say it out loud at this very moment.

Niall pauses whatever he’s looking at, glancing over at Zayn as he smiles a little. “Hardly ever wear them,” he says.

“I know,” Zayn says. “You should wear them more though.”

“Might, since you like them so much,” Niall says, but Zayn knows he’s mostly kidding.

 

They sit in silence for a little while longer, though it’s not like Zayn makes any attempts to break it. Instead he stays on the couch, blanket around him and trying to keep himself breathing and tell himself that he’s _fine_ , he’s okay.

He goes out for another smoke, the need itching and burning inside him a little more extra today, and Zayn’s easy to comply to the craving as he steps outside again. It’s still raining, he realizes after only a few moments, standing underneath the edge of the roof again. But it’s fine, anyway. She always liked the rain; said it had was a nice way to “wash everything away and start fresh”.

 

When he comes back inside Niall’s computer is closed and he’s on the couch again, glasses still on as Zayn resumes his seat at the other end of it wordlessly.

“So I was -- thinking,” Niall starts, slowly. Zayn watches him, blinking. “I mean -- we could, do something for your sister's birthday maybe? I don’t know, find a restaurant around here, or something?”

Zayn pauses, unsure what to say. A part of him wants to say yes, if only because Niall suggested it and looks rather nervous, sitting there. But a larger part of him doesn’t want to. He shakes his head, slowly. 

“Don’t think that’s a good idea, Ni,” he says finally.

Niall frowns. “Why not? We’re stuck in this small fucking cabin, we should maybe do something,” he says.

“We don’t need to _do_ anything, there’s nothing to _do_ about this, Niall. It’s her birthday, and she’s not here. That’s all there is too it,” Zayn responds, firmer this time.

Niall doesn’t still look convinced. “That’s not ‘all there is too it’,” he says, that determined look on his face, though Zayn hasn’t a clue what he’s got to be so fucking determined _about_ right now.

“Yes, it is,” Zayn snaps, now irritated. “I don’t want to do anything, don’t you fucking get it?”

The first look Niall gets is hurt, confused, and a bit angry, Zayn thinks where he’s sitting. But then, he laughs, the sound catching Zayn off-guard.

“This is so typical,” Niall says, still laughing as he talks now.

Zayn shifts, now getting a better looking at Niall. “How is it typical?” he asks, somewhat angrily.

“It’s just -- I always think I’m in, with you. Like I actually let myself think ‘hey, maybe this is it. Maybe Zayn will finally let me in’ and you know what? It’s always the fucking same, you never let me in -- you always push me out,” Niall says, and now he’s angry, Zayn can tell by the way his jaw is set -- hands balled up into fists at his side.

“I don’t push you out, what the fuck are you talking about?” Zayn asks.

Niall stares at him for a few moments, as if he’s still trying to figure what to say. “Don’t call, don’t reply to my texts -- all I know is that you’re at home, not talking to me, not even after everything that happened,” he says. 

Zayn doesn’t want to be here, listening to this. He wants to be anywhere but here -- in this room, with Niall’s eyes tearing up in front of him and that heavy feeling on his chest.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Zayn starts, keeping his tone anything but angry. Sarcastic, maybe. Bored, even more likely -- but mad? Zayn isn’t mad. He’s beyond mad, standing there, watching Niall shake his head. “But there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, is there?”

And then, Niall does something unexpected -- something Zayn hadn’t seen coming. Because in the few moments that follow Zayn watches him nearly stumble forward, taking a few spaces and closing the gap between them -- and kissing Zayn on the mouth.

It isn’t a light kiss, there isn’t anything about this kiss like that. It’s Niall pressing against Zayn’s mouth, hard, biting down on his lower lip and a part of Zayn wants to step back and push Niall away but a larger part of himself kisses Niall back, just as hard, just as messy. And this doesn’t fix anything -- doesn’t even start to mend whatever is between them, but right now Zayn doesn’t care.

One of Niall’s hands come to his waist, pulling him closer and Zayn responds easily -- stepping toward Niall as they stumble back, Zayn’s back hitting the wall near his bedroom.

It takes a while for them to actually get to the bedroom, what with it being a bit difficult to maneuver with their lips attached -- neither of them making any effort to pull their lips apart when the back of Zayn’s knees hit the end of the bed.

Niall’s panting into his mouth, his hands warm as they tug at Zayn’s shirt rather impatiently. Zayn’s fairly sure his lips are bruised, can feel how sensitive they are -- but that hardly deters him from this, from Niall, as he pulls Niall closer to him still. 

“You okay?” Niall asks, pressing his thumb against Zayn’s jawline.

“Yeah,” Zayn answers, breathing heavily as he and Niall work each other’s shirts off.

It’s always surprised Zayn, seeing Niall without a shirt off compared to himself. His skin littered with tattoos, different colours and shapes -- none of them really matching, some of them he can’t even remember why he got them, the meaning and significance to them gone but they’re still there -- even if somewhat faded. But Niall’s has nothing on it, and Zayn thinks that’s rather telling of the two of them, maybe.

There’s rain again, the sound against the window as Niall presses his fingers into Zayn’s waist -- his side, his arms, anywhere he can touch. “Ni --” Zayn says, breathless, his dick already half hard in his track pants.

Niall seems to get the message, the two now removing their pants -- everything on the floor as Zayn tries to breathe.

It’s a few minutes before Niall actually get his hand on Zayn’s cock, grip firm -- his forehead against Zayn’s temple as he strokes once, enough to get Zayn’s hips to buck up in response. He does it again, and a second time, working up a steady rhythm as Zayn leans his head back against the wall, his hands gripping the sheet on his bed in an attempt to keep himself steady. 

“Gonna -- come,” Zayn warms, but Niall doesn’t remove his hand, not even when Zayn’s eyes roll in the back of his head and his cock is now spilling come everywhere, all over Niall’s hand.

“Like a bit of a mess,” Niall says, winking at Zayn as he moans.

“ _Christ_ , you’re the worst,” Zayn tells him.

Niall just shrugs, his cheeks pink and flushed all the way down to his neck. Zayn pauses, trying to pull himself together until he notices Niall is still hard -- his cock flushed against his stomach as Zayn reaches forward, brushing his thumb against the head of his cock.

“Zayn,” Niall breathes out, nearly pleading.

“I got you,” Zayn tells him, voice soft as he starts to suck on the skin along Niall’s collarbone.

“Zayn,” Niall repeats, voice nearly breaking. “ _Please_.”

Zayn doesn’t need to be told twice, one of his hands at the base of Niall’s cock as he takes the tip of it into his mouth -- stretching his lips as he hears Niall moan above him. He hasn’t done this in a while, a long while, Zayn thinks to himself as he takes in a deep breath -- taking more of Niall in as he braces his other hand against Niall’s thigh.

It’s a bit before Zayn can take all of Niall in, his eyes watering just a little as he sucks -- cheeks hollowing as he moves up and down again in the same rhythm. 

“Gonna --” Niall warms, hardly able to get the word out as he grips Zayn’s hair, tugging on it before he does come -- hitting the back of Zayn’s throat.

“Told you,” Zayn mumbles as he sits up again, kissing the corner of Niall’s mouth. “I got you.”

Niall doesn’t argue, just tilts Zayn’s chin up to kiss him on the mouth in response.

 

 

After a bit more kissing Zayn finally goes to shower, changing into clean clothes as he steps out into the kitchen. Niall showers after him, the water running as Zayn boils some water for tea, leaning against the counter.

He swallows, checking his phone to see a handful of texts -- unlocking it only to send one to his mum, promising to call her tomorrow, before he locks it once more. He takes out two mugs as Niall walks into the kitchen, crossing his arms as he glances over at Zayn where he’s leaning against the fridge.

“So we should -- talk,” Niall starts slowly.

Zayn nods, handing Niall one of the now made tea’s. “Probably a good idea,” he agrees. 

Niall looks down at his mug, pulling on the string for his tea bag wordlessly as a small silence lapses between them. “I was -- or, I _am_ , upset with you. Or, mad, I guess,” Niall says finally.

Zayn braces himself, taking in a deep breath. He should’ve gone for a smoke first, can feel the itch in his fingertips as he nods once. “Gonna tell me why?” he asks in response.

“When we -- in there --” Niall motions to the bedrooms. Zayn doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue. “You know, that was the first time, in as long as I can remember that you’ve -- I don’t know, reacted to something.”

Zayn’s brows furrow, confused. “Not sure I’m following, Ni.”

“It’s like --” Niall pauses, briefly, to run a hand along his face. “It’s like all this time you have all these fucking walls up, Zayn, and it’s fucking impossible to know what you’re thinking like, ever.”

“That’s just who I am,” Zayn replies, feeling himself tense.

“You weren’t always like that,” Niall argues, and Zayn knows he’s right. “And that’s, fine, that’s whatever, but it’s so frustrating -- especially when you shut everyone out.”

“You know why I shut everyone out?” Zayn interrupts, tone sharp. Niall’s jaw is set, waiting for him to respond. “Because it’s too -- it’s too fucking much, Niall. It’s kind of hard, letting someone in who wasn’t there for you when you lose your fucking sister to a drunk driver.”

Niall’s eyes are wet, Zayn can see the glassy reflection in them as he shakes his head, slowly. “That’s the thing, Zayn.”

“What’s the thing?” Zayn asks.

“I _was_ there,” Niall says. He puts his tea down, not even having touched it. “You just didn’t even realize it, did you?”

Zayn blinks. “What are you --”

“You wouldn’t let me be there for you,” Niall cuts him off.

He’s right. Zayn knows he’s right, standing there, watching him. He sighs tiredly, putting his mug into the sink and rinses it for a few moments.

“You’re right,” he tells Niall. 

Niall is looking at him, as if unsure what to say, which -- Zayn can relate to, at least. And it’s almost funny to him, now, realizing that Niall is right. That he had tried to be there for Zayn, but Zayn hadn’t let himself see it -- instead stayed in his house, not talking to anyone, really.

But it’s all clear now, and he’s not sure why it wasn’t so clear before. 

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says, honest and making sure his voice doesn’t break when he speaks. “I was a huge fucking dick and I’m sorry.”

Niall smiles, a little, but it’s something -- Zayn thinks. “We were both kind of stupid,” Niall says. “I’m sorry, too.”

Zayn shrugs, a bit of tension lifted as he rubs his arms. “So we’re good?” Zayn asks.

Niall presses his lips together, as if considering. “We’re good,” he says, voice quiet.

Not sure what else to say Zayn takes his package of cigarettes out of his pocket, making his way to the front door as he steps outside.

 

 

For the next few days, things are alright; almost nice, in a way. 

Mostly Zayn naps, and reads a little -- spending some time on his computer while Niall tries to cook some more recipes, Gordon Ramsay’s unmistakable voice always coming from the kitchen. 

They don’t kiss again; mostly Niall keeps his distance, and Zayn isn’t sure how he feels about that. But he doesn’t ask, isn’t sure it’s his place to question it as they keep going about their days.

Eventually, though, it comes to an end when Niall gets the call. His x-rays came in, and he needs to go back to London and see his doctor. He tells Zayn one night at dinner, the air cool as they’re sitting at the small table.

“Are you scared?” Zayn asked, poking a little at his potatoes. 

“I guess, yeah,” Niall told him, not looking up from his plate. 

Zayn had wanted to hug him, then, but didn’t -- instead picking up his plate and washing it in the sink.

 

They both leave on the same day, bags packed and Zayn’s car returned to the same rental company at the airport.

They’re both tired, Zayn nearly having to drag his feet as they board the plane. But when the plane starts to take off he feels Niall’s hand -- warm and gripping his own on their armrest, and for a little while, at least, it feels like Zayn can breathe.

So he grips Niall’s hand a little tighter, and imagines what it would be like if he could have this all the time.

 

 

“Thanks for -- coming,” Niall tells him when they’re at Heathrow, Zayn holding his keys and Niall’s driver waiting for him. “I couldn’t have done that with anyone else, you know.”

Zayn smiles, nodding. “I’m glad I came,” he says. “If you need anything you can just call me, you know?”

“I know,” Niall says, bumping Zayn’s hip with his own. “Same for you, though.”

“Call me after you get your x-rays, alright?” Zayn asks.

“Will do,” Niall promises, giving Zayn a small salute in response.

Zayn laughs, quietly, shaking his head. “That’s enough out of you,” he says teasingly, opening his arms so Niall can step into them.

And he does, with slow, careful moving steps -- wrapping his arms around Zayn’s waist, pulling him closer. “Gonna miss you,” Niall mumbles into Zayn’s neck, sending shivers up Zayn’s spine.

“Gonna really fucking miss you,” Zayn says into Niall’s hair, his fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Niall’s neck. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“Won’t be,” Niall says, clasping Zayn’s shoulder as he steps back. “You’re going to get sick of me soon, Malik.”

Zayn smirks. “Looking forward to it,” he says, watching Niall walk off with a final wave.

And it’s -- home, then, he thinks to himself.

 

 

It’s weird, not having Niall around. Every once in a while Zayn will open his mouth to tell Niall something, anything, only to find he’s once again in his empty house, with no Niall -- with no one, really.

He visits his mum for a few days, filled with a few tears, lots of food, and a lot of midnight snacks. It’s something he does whenever he’s at his mum's and can’t sleep; padding off into the kitchen and getting some food, boiling some water for tea.

His mom woke up, one night, near three in the morning. “Why are you awake?” she had asked, pulling up a stool beside Zayn.

Zayn shrugged, stirring his tea. “Can’t sleep. Can’t ever sleep here, it feels like,” he told her.

She had smiled, sadly, reaching for his hand and gripping it tight. “I am glad you’re here though,” she said, softly.

“I know,” Zayn said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “I know.”

 

 

Louis calls him one night, when Zayn’s back at his house.

“So, are you an Alaska expert now?” he asks when Zayn answers his phone.

Zayn rolls his eyes, cradling his phone against his shoulder. “Wouldn’t say that, no,” Zayn tells him.

“Next time, then,” Louis says after a moment.

Zayn’s sitting on his patio outside in his backyard, the air getting warmer in summer -- only needing a jacket as he bites on his lower lip. “Yeah, maybe,” Zayn says after a moment.

He’s got a packet of cigarettes in his lap, having been debating opening them for the better part of ten minutes. He’d promised his mum he was going to quit, but now, here, Zayn isn’t sure if he can keep that promise. So he taps the box once, twice, three times, not in any sort of rhythm. 

“How have you been?” Louis asks, not going to be beating around the bush today, apparently.

Zayn sighs, closing his eyes for a few moments. “Fine. At home,” he answers, sounding almost mechanical. 

Louis hums, staying quiet on the other line for a while. “Harry called me today,” he says finally.

“What did he say?” Zayn asks.

“Still in LA, apparently,” Louis tells him. “Asked me how you were doing, if you were still with Niall.”

Zayn swallows. “Sounds like Harry,” he says, picking at a thread loose on the sleeve of his jumper absently. 

“Zayn --” Louis starts. “How long are you going to carry on like this?”

This is serious. Zayn can hear it in Louis’ voice, all concern and gentle and how he gets when he’s genuinely worried.

“Few weeks, I don’t know,” Zayn says.

“Niall’s home again, from the doctor. Said things are going to be a little rough for a while,” Louis says, not pushing Zayn anymore.

“Is he -- okay?” Zayn asks slowly.

“Will be, eventually,” Louis says.

“It’s weird,” Zayn says, picking at some grass by his feet. It might rain; the clouds are dark, but Zayn can’t tell if they’re for rain or if it’s because the sun's about to set.

“What’s weird?”

“Not -- having him here. Don’t know if I like it,” Zayn says, shaking his head.

“You’re so -- fuck, Zayn,” Louis says, and Zayn can’t tell if he’s laughing or sighing. “You’re so fucking _gone_ for him, don’t you see that?”

A drop of rain hits his forehead, cold and wet. Zayn blinks, wiping it away with his sleeve. And there’s no realisation, no big moment, because he supposes he's known all along, somewhere inside him, that Louis is right. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Been a bit gone for him for a while, haven’t I?”

 

 

It takes almost an hour to drive to Niall’s house, but feels more like an eternity in Zayn’s car as he grips the steering wheel tight. 

He’d hung up his phone call with Louis, though Zayn suspects Louis already knew what he was doing by the time he had his keys and was out the door. And it might be stupid, driving all this way and not knowing that Niall might not feel the same way -- that he might be going and could, possibly, fuck over his friendship with the one person in this world that means something to him.

But, fuck. If he doesn’t do it now, he never will, so Zayn keeps driving -- doesn’t even think to pull over.

 

 

There’s a light on in the living room when Zayn pulls into the driveway, hands shaking and, fuck, he really needs a smoke -- but he’d left the pack back home, on his patio in the rain. 

It’s fucking pouring, Zayn nearly drenched from the small walk to the doorway as he knocks, loudly. He’s making a mistake, he thinks to himself -- hands still shaking as he tries to breathe. Niall could’ve moved on, could’ve found someone else -- could’ve, maybe, gotten married in the few weeks that have passed, who the fuck knows. 

He runs a hand through his hair, wet under his touch as the door opens.

“Zayn?” Niall asks, eyes wide. “It’s -- fucking pouring outside, what are you doing?”

“I um -- came here, to see you,” Zayn starts, nearly smacking himself in the face after he says it.

“Is everything okay?” Niall asks.

Zayn nearly laughs, feeling like his chest could cave in or explode -- something along those lines. “I just -- shit, Niall,” he says, shivering, though he’s not sure if it's from utter terror of what he’s about to do or the fact that he’s fucking wet from the rain. “I love you. I fucking -- love you, so fucking much, and I’ve been so stupid and made a complete idiot of myself, you know that? I always do that. And I know that you might not, or probably don’t, feel the same way and that’s fine I just -- I needed to tell you, because not telling you left me in this world without any hope of having you, and I can’t fucking live like that anymore, Ni. It’s weird, not having you around and I just -- I need you, and I think you need me, too.”

It’s a moment before Niall does anything, but then his mouth is breaking into a huge grin and that sends a huge wave of relief through Zayn because he knows, just by looking at Niall in his doorway -- all disheveled and sleepy, he fucking _knows_ what Niall’s going to say.

And it’s a moment, _the_ moment, where the love of his life loves him back. 

“Thank God,” Niall breathes out, stepping out -- limping only a little as he puts his hands on Zayn’s cheeks, palms soft and warm. “I was waiting for you to come, you stupid prick.”

Zayn leans his forehead against Niall’s, laughing quietly before he leans in, pressing his lips to Niall’s. It’s heated and full of want and it nearly takes Zayn’s breath away, but it’s also soft and gentle and it’s so, so much that Zayn’s head starts to spin.

“So, what does this mean?” Zayn asks, pulling away from Niall’s lips just slightly.

“It means --” Niall starts, breathless, pressing a few quick kisses to Zayn’s lips, like he just can’t help himself. “That I love you too, Zayn fucking Malik.”

“Using my full name, I see,” Zayn teases. Niall groans before kissing him again, the two stepping back into Niall’s house with the sound of the rain and the door closing behind them.

 

 

They’re in Niall’s room a little while later, spread out across the bed and breathing heavily. It must be past midnight, but Zayn doesn’t really care what time it is, not really, as he squeezes Niall’s hand in his own lightly.

“Gonna get a tattoo, I think,” Niall says, voice muffled where his mouth is pressed against Zayn’s bare shoulder.

“You’ve got my attention,” Zayn says, eyebrows raised as he trails a finger along Niall’s hand lazily.

“Got it all planned out,” Niall starts, grinning into Zayn’s skin. “You sure you wanna know?”

“Stop being a fucking tease and _tell me_ ,” Zayn says, trying to sound stern.

“‘ _I fucked Zayn Malik_ ,” Niall says. “Right across me arse. What do you think?”

“Oh God,” Zayn groans, laughing into the back of his hand. 

He’s in love with an idiot, is what he is.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://loueh.tumblr.com/) so drop by and say hello pals!


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